


The Powerful

by TanninTele



Series: The Dreadfuls [3]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gangsters, Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, Alternate Universe - Thieves, Con Artists, Crime, Crimes & Criminals, F/F, F/M, Gay Character, Guns, Kidnapping, Lesbian Character, M/M, Organized Crime, Secret Organizations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-31
Updated: 2018-08-19
Packaged: 2019-06-12 15:30:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 28,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15342861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TanninTele/pseuds/TanninTele
Summary: After months of planning, the Death Eaters are prepared to steal the Philosopher's Stone from the Magic Is Might artifact exhibition. However, before they can attend the exhibit, vengeful, cruel (and, frankly, idiotic) enemies appear from the fold.Summarized, Tonks and Hermione kick arse, Ron and Romilda snog, and Tom pretends he's more important than he is.Part Three of The Dreadfuls





	1. Chapter 1

**_The Powerful_ **

**TanninTele**

* * *

_Disclaimer: All rights belong to J.K. Rowling, voiding that of original content and characters._

* * *

**I:**

_"Breaking news! 'The Grey Wolf' has struck again, but this time, the police have a suspect in custody. Late Thursday night in Whitby, the house of Alvin M. Creevey, infamous candid photographer, was broken into."_

The brown-haired, plainly attractive reporter spoke in a monotone on the telly. She sat stiff-backed behind a desk, wearing an alarmingly fuchsia, tight-fighting dress that made Harry grimace and ignore the program entirely. 

 _"The burglary quickly turned to homicide as 'The Grey Wolf'_   _proceeded to viciously maul Creevey and his thirteen-year-old son. Fortunately, Dennis Creevey, survived the attack with minor injuries. The boy, havign witnessed his father's death, managed to snap a_ _surreptitious photograph of father's killer. The police were able to identify the man as Fenrir Greyback, who was arrested and confessed to being the notorious serial killer, 'The Grey Wolf'_."

The reporter touched her ear gently, listening to a blue-tooth, and grimaced. She sat up and shuffled through a few papers, clearly ill at ease. 

_"Additionally, further investigation into the late Alvin Creevey revealed he was involved in the taking and distribution of illicit, underage pornography; this leaves to wonder if Greyback's attack was made out of cannibalistic cruelty, or a sense of vigilante justice - "_

Scoffing in disgust, Tonks reached for the remote and turned off the telly. She jabbed her chopsticks into the box of takeout lo mein noodles. "Didn't you do a project on - what do they call him - 'The Grey Wolf'," she mocked, flicking her chopsticks like quotation marks. "For your criminology class?" 

Harry scrubbed a hand across his face, carefully maneuvering the pin in his mouth so he didn't stab his tongue. "I did," he spoke, making a notation in his notebook. It was filled with measurements, and Harry was clearly frustrated as he altered one. "The Grey Wolf is a violent individual, but justifies his urges by killing those he deems repellent." 

Tonks made a humming noise around her mouthful. 

"Hermione?" Harry glanced up at his model. The girl was trying her very best to remain still, but couldn't help the occasional twitch as he poked and prodded her with pins. He brushed his fingers against the straining fabric around her midsection, a few stitches pulling loose. "I'm going to ask this as nicely as I can; don't take this the wrong way. But have you been stress-eating again?" 

Hermione pinched her lips at him. "Why do you ask?" 

"You've gained a few inches," he said, not unkindly, merely stating a fact. "And I'm already having trouble with these dimensions. There's only so many secret pockets a jumpsuit can have." 

With a conflicted huff, Hermione brushed back a curl, which had fallen out of her messy bun. Harry had insisted she wear her hair up for the exhibition. The recommendation had less to do with the ugly tangles her hair was constantly in and more to do with the annoyingly high collar he had attached to the jumpsuit. _"It brings out your cheekbones,"_  Harry had told her. Looking in the tall, thin mirror Harry had leaned against the wall, Hermione couldn't deny that she looked -  _hot._

The jumpsuit was a shade of warm pink, springy and breezy. Wrapped around her waist was a convertible skirt, that - when she walked - seemed to billow behind her. There were no sleeves, merely a halter top that led to a band of ruched fabric that brushed against her cheeks. If Hermione ducked her head, she could conceal the lower half of her face, leaving only her eyes to bat seductively at her reflection. The only fault was her stomach, which she self-consciously raised her hands to cover.

"C - can you fix it?" Hermione asked, almost desperate. 

With the heist's deadline quickly approaching, Hermione had begun to cheat on her heavily-enforced diet. She kept a hidden refrigerator in her room, filled with dairy-free ice cream and frozen chocolates. Her guilty pleasure. Hermione's parents, both of them dentists, would be horrified with her.  _She_ was horrified with herself. 

Harry, sensing the girl's panic, placed a calming hand on her hip. "Yes, yes, of course," he soothed, patting her thigh. "It's an easy fix, I'd just - I'd like it to  _fit_ come March twentieth, alright?" 

"Why March twentieth?" Tonks spoke up around a mouthful of takeout, trying to change the subject. 

"It's the spring equinox," Hermione told her, the quirk of her brow making it seem  _obvious._

"Yeah, yeah, I get that. I get there's some - I don't know - spiritual significance to equinoxes, but I don't think many people care. I've never  _once_ gotten a 'happy spring equinox' card, and yet, somehow receive Hanukkah cards every year from - " 

Hermione ignored her, and began to gesticulate empathetically. "The spring equinox represents beginnings and endings, life and death - " 

" _Speaking_ of life and death," Harry said pointedly, sitting back on his heels, exasperated. "You'd better stop moving, or else I'm never going to get this done."

"What's the big deal?" Tonks asked from the couch. "So what, it's a little tight? I happen to clothes a bit tight," she gave an exaggerated wink. Hermione glared at her.  

"If the suit is too snug," Harry carefully took a small scissors to the torn seam. "Hermione will be fidgeting all evening, bringing attention to herself - and we wouldn't want it to  _rip,_ would we?"

Hermione flinched at the undertone of condescension in his tone. " _Sorry_ ," she snapped, pulling out of his grasp. "We can't all be ectomorphs like you, Harry. I can't help having curves." With that, Hermione stomped off into her room, angrily sweeping up the hem of the convertible skirt trailing behind her.  

The door slammed. 

Tonks sighed. "Come on, Harry," she scolded gently. "She's just been through a break-up with the Weasel, and this whole, 'the weight of our entire operation relies on your ability to walk in heels' is getting ridiculous." 

Contrite, Harry collected his materials and dropped them onto the coffee table. He left the tape measure around his neck, and idly played with the metal tip. Tonks sighed at him. He looked like a kicked puppy. "Speaking of," she changed the subject. "How  _is_  our third favorite redhead?" 

"On a  _date,"_ Harry said. "With Romilda Vane, an intern at the Daily Prophet."

From Hermione's room, they could hear her make an intelligible screech. "What?  _Romilda?!"_

"Oh, she's upset." 

"I'm not  _upset,_ Tonks," Hermione huffed. Cracking her bedroom door open so they could hear better, she began to remove the half-finished jumpsuit.  "Our break-up was perfectly mutual. I just think he deserves a lot better than that - that - " she struggled to reach the zipper, spinning in place. "Gossipy  _wench,"_ she gasped out, the zipper finally yanking down. She hugged her ribs. "God, you're right," Hermione admitted reluctantly. "That was too tight." 

Harry stuck out his bottom lip in a petulant pout, and Hermione couldn't help feeling a bit bad for snapping at him.

Harry had always been on the smaller side, having been stunted for most of his childhood and starved as punishment.

Hermione, in contrast, had a delightful relationship with her parents. They were strict when necessary, but kind and welcoming, and didn't mind that Hermione had always been  _different._ She never went anywhere without a book in hand, and none of the other kids had  _quite_ the grasp on vocabulary as she did. Other children bored her, and, very quickly, so did public school. Her parents attempted to send her to a private school that specialized in academic excellence, but she got in on a scholarship and was one of three bi-racial students. Hermione got along with a few of her peers, but all the others seemed intimidated by her drive and discipline. 

She wondered if that was why Ron dumped her. He hadn't given much of a reason, just given her a sad little smile that contrasted greatly with the beaming grins he used to give her. There was nothing  _wrong_ with Ron, not really. He was funny and attractive, a bit dull, but he seemed to find her lectures  _cute._ Hermione wondered if it was about sex. Besides a few moments of hand-holding, they rarely touched. She thought back to their first date, pressed against each other in the movie theater because the chairs were too small. Ron, well, he was incredibly tall, and Hermione had rather wide hips.

Glancing down at her body, the top of her jumpsuit fallen to her waist, Hermione sighed. At least _Tonks_ found her curves attractive, even if it was a joke. She slipped off the rest of the outfit, and pulled on an overlarge t-shirt. When she returned to the living room, Harry was microwaving a plate of take-out, and Tonks was rifling through her purse.

"Are you going out?" Hermione asked her, timidly taking a seat beside her. 

"What?" Tonks blinked. A smudge of sauce was on her bottom lip. Hands beneath her thighs, Hermione fought the urge to wipe it away. "Oh, no. No, but I have a gift for you," she grinned, and flicked out a tongue to wipe the sauce away. 

From inside her bag, Tonks removed an object that was wrapped in an old handkerchief. She opened the flaps to reveal an antique hair comb, the gems splayed like the petals of a poinsettia flower. "I haven't gotten it polished, yet," Tonks apologized, turning the comb around. The deep red gems glistened like droplets of blood, and the smudged, off-yellow teeth of the comb seemed bronze. "I stopped by Aunt Narcissa's today to visit the baby, and she was getting rid of some more rubbish. I snagged this - "  _stole it,_ Hermione's brain supplied weakly, but Hermione was too busy gaping to voice it. "I thought it would look pretty with your outfit. Um. Here." Pale, white hands thrusted it toward her.

Hermione held it carefully, thinking quietly her hands looked huge and dark, around the delicate comb. She nudged a loose gem with her pinky. It wiggled.

"It's old," Tonks explained. "A few jewels have fallen off a few times already - " 

"I love it," Hermione said, touched. "It's beautiful. But it's too much - " 

"You'll look beautiful in it," Tonks blurted. She clenched her hands in her lap. "You - I mean, you _deserve_ to get all dolled up after the year we've had," she gave a nervous laugh. Tonks had a habit of filling awkward silences with blabber. "I just - " 

The two flinched as the microwave went off. Harry coughed, still standing in the kitchen. Hermione blushed, realizing how close she and Tonks had gotten. They were practically leaning into one another, breathing in each other's air, their rapid heartbeats aligning. Letting out a shaky breath, Hermione carefully set the comb onto the coffee table beside Harry's swathes of extra fabric. The colors matched gorgeously. 

Harry echoed this sentiment. "That's actually perfect, Tonks," he gathered his plate of steaming food, and sat very purposefully between the two girls. He wasn't ignorant to their surreptitious glances and red cheeks. After all the cock-blocking they've done between him and Tom . . . 

He shoved his fork into his mouth, smug. Harry continued as though nothing was wrong, getting back into business. "So . . . you said the jewels can be removed?" 

* * *

"Fuck yeah!" Romilda snarled, throwing her hair back, victorious.

With a resounding  _thump_ _,_ she knocked over a circular target with a rubber bullet. The target smacked backwards, and Ron could swear he heard wood splinter. He whistled appreciatively, obligingly holding her purse as Romilda collected her prize. She pointed excitedly toward an overlarge stuffed lion. 

"Shouldn't  _I_ be winning things for  _you?"_ He asked, amused.

Romilda looked tiny with the stuffed animal draped over her shoulders. 

"Don't kid yourself. And I'm keeping this." She patted the lion's snout. "Now. Pickle on a stick?" Romilda started forward without waiting for an answer.  

After a moment, Ron doggedly followed after her; he wasn't afraid to admit that his gaze lingered a bit long on her arse in those tight, tight jeans. 

Romilda was lovely. Absolutely lovely. Ron wasn't sure why Harry had seemed so reluctant to give him her details. She was remarkably pretty, confident, worked at _The_ _Daily Prophet_ (which was certainly more interesting than the library); and, best of all, she had seemed incredibly eager to date him. Essentially, all his standards had been met. 

Ron laughed as he chased after her, long legs straining. Goodness, she was fast. Romilda darted through the crowd, disappearing into it. Ron kept track of her by following the burst of orange lion's mane bobbing above the masses. Finally, Ron found her at a food stand. She was waiting impatiently in line, a veritable well of energy, bouncing on her heels. "Thank god," she said, relieved. "You still have my purse." 

"Oh, right," Ron untangled the strap from his fingers, and obligingly passing it to her. "But I thought - I suppose you want me to pay?" 

The girl snorted inelegantly. "Honey. You don't have a job. Don't worry about it." While usually he would be jumping at the offer of free food, Ron looked down. It was their first date; wasn't the gentleman supposed to pay?

Romilda sighed loudly. "Oh, alright. We'll split, if it appeases your big, manly ego. What do you want?" 

" _Everything,"_ Ron breathed, staring up at the menu. The smell of fried food and candy floss was incredibly enticing; even though he only dated Hermione for a month or so, he was sick of tofu and rabbit food. "Oh, god, deep fried ice cream. That sounds . . . both disgusting and delicious at the same time." 

"I'll get it," Romilda grabbed his arm, pulling playfully. "We must have it." 

A few minutes later, with his arms full of red and white checkered trays, Ron maneuvered his way to a sticky table. Romilda placed her stuffed lion across from them, and laid out napkins on the tabletop. Sitting beside her, Ron took a sip of the pop Romilda bought. The straw was curly and purple.

"That root beer was mine," she told him, schooling a very serious look on her face. "And now I'll have to toss the whole thing. I'm _terrified_ of cooties, you see." Which was clearly a joke, as she had already snogged him a few times at the very top of the Ferris wheel. _Tradition,_ she had insisted. They rode it three times, and each time was better than the last.

"Really?" Ron arched a brow. Grabbing a chicken leg from her tray, he took a liberal bite. "Mmm. Delicious." 

Romilda rolled her eyes, and tested the fried ice cream. He watched her intently. 

"Is it good?" 

She smacked her lips, testing. "It's good," she smiled at their banter. 

Ron liked her smile. Romilda had slightly crooked teeth and beautifully tanned skin, spotted with freckles. Her hair nearly rivaled Hermione's, but she kept it in neat, voluminous curls that Ron fought the urge to run his fingers through. Although Romilda and his ex-girlfriend were remarkably parallel in looks, that was where their similarity ended. Ron was sure that Hermione would never have enjoyed going to a festival like this.

The sun was going down, and with the neon glow of a carnival ride behind her, Romilda's curly brown hair lit up like a halo. She was pulled it up, out of the way, as she took a messy bite of her pickle, juices dribbling down her chin. He was sure Romilda didn't  _mean_ to be suggestive, but the way she moaned around the large, juicy vegetable was - 

She laughed as she cupped a hand under her chin. 

Ron shook himself. "So - um. You work at _The_ _Daily Prophet._ What else do you do?" 

"I don't know. I'm pretty good with my hands," she wiggled her brows. She laughed at Ron's expression. "I make jewelry, in my free time. See this?" Romilda pulled up her sleeve, and showed him a braided metal bracelet, inlaid with several small jewels. "I made that." 

"You made that?" Ron repeated, mouth slipping open. "Wow. That's crazy. It's so pretty." 

Romilda nodded, satisfied with his response. "I know," she shook her sleeve back down. "Jewelry is my  _passion,"_ she said empathetically. "Journalism is just my career. Ms. Skeeter is an incredible influence, certainly. I made her a lime-green necklace that she wore to an interview with George Harrison; that issue was our most successful." She winced. "Though, perhaps that had less to do with my necklace than the fact he died shortly after; may he rest in peace." 

The red-head snorted. "And the fact he was stabbed forty times by a man who thought Harrison was an extra-terrestrial. You know," he squinted an eye, and pointed a spoon at her. "I think I read that one. The headline was something sensational, like _STABBED BY PSYCHO. PARANORMAL MOTIVATIONS?_ " 

She beamed at him. "You read the piece?" 

Ron shrugged, sheepish. He shoveled a bite of ice cream into his mouth. "When Harry told me you worked at the  _Daily Prophet,_ I caught myself up. Just in case it came up in conversation." He swallowed tightly. "Probably wasn't my brightest idea, to ask for archive copies of _The_ _Daily Prophet_ at the library where my ex works. Our break-up was mutual, so it was just awkward," he assured her quickly. "There's no risk of any crazy, jealous exes coming after you with a sharpened nail filer." 

"Aw," Romilda pouted. "I was really hoping to fight for your honor." 

Ron laughed. 

They finished eating, tossing their food into a fly-infested rubbish bin. Ron felt sticky and full and comfortably sated. Romilda tweaked a thumb under his chin, rubbing off a smudge of ice cream. "Your face is a mess," she told him, smirking. "I'm gonna go to the bathroom, I'll bring you a wet paper towel." 

"I'll wait here," Ron said, and they stopped in front of a public bathroom. Romilda handed him the lion, and took back her purse. Ron felt little more than an unpaid caddie. With a grunt, he hefted the animal over his head. He was sure he looked ridiculous, his hair blending perfectly with the lion's mane. 

Ron bounced on his heels for a bit, and contemplated texting Harry on the progress of their date. Just as he dug out his phone, Ron heard a muffled shout. The door for the girls' loo was around the corner, largely secluded. Frowning, he took a tentative step towards the restrooms. Looking around, no one else seemed to have heard it. He took another step toward the bathrooms. 

"Romilda?" he called out, hesitant. He nudged the door open, and peered into the dirty room. The tile was absolutely disgusting, a cockroach scuttling under the rusted sink pipes. Water was running from a tap, but the loo was abandoned. The bushes behind him rustled, and Ron twitched. "Hello?" 

Hot breath puffed against his neck.  _"Hello."_

His screams muffled by a gnarled hand, Ron was yanked back into the bushes.  

The stuffed lion fell, abandoned, into the grass.

* * *

**_To be continued . . ._ **


	2. Chapter 2

**_The Powerful_ **

**TanninTele**

* * *

_Disclaimer: All rights belong to J.K. Rowling, voiding that of original content and characters._

* * *

**II:**

"Right," Tom ran his hands down Harry's scalp, trying in vain to flatten the boy's curls. Harry smiled at him, a little smug, as the ringlets popped right back up. Tom scowled at the top of his head. "The thing about Griphook. He's . . . well, he's a hardass," Tom, lacking the desire to sugarcoat it, spoke bluntly. "He won't like you. He hardly likes _me,_ and once he realizes we're lovers, he'll probably be a touch homophobic. But you _must_ resist strangling him." 

Harry batted Tom's hands away, and fixed his fringe so he could see. "Sounds like a delightful chap." 

Dressed to the nines in a traditional, stiff, four-piece suit, Harry looked like the host of a 1970s game show. His hair was a mess, his tie sloppily done, and his posture lax. Tom wore the suit far better, the man's natural grace and towering height working in his favor; Harry bit his lip, and fought the urge to rustle Tom's perfectly gelled hair. 

"I'm aware this sounds cliche, but you will let me do the talking," Tom commanded, his fingers twitching - the only indication of his hidden unrest. Harry arched a brow, wondering what could _ever_ ruffle this unshakable man. "This is a very big investment for me. If we can't get Gringotts to invest in our little  _expenditure,_ we might as well call it off. His web of followers is almost as large as mine; I could go into the politics, but your eyes are already glazing over," he rapped two fingers against Harry's cheek. "Pay attention," he asked gently.

"Sorry," Harry said, sheepish. "It's just - even their recievingroomis decadent. I feel like I'm sullying the place just waiting here."  

The gentleman's club was, rather unoriginally, called 'Gringott's Club'. It had been founded by Mister Griphook's great, great, great-something grandfather. The club catered to London's elite, and Griphook ran it with an iron fist. 

A chandelier sparkled overhead and dark, polished hardwood was smooth under their feet. Numerous old, stern-faced men sat in cushioned chairs, quietly reading their newspapers and smoking spicy, imported cigars. Their silence seemed to echo, and Harry felt it was sacrilegious to speak.

Tom, however, completely ignored propriety - and the gentlemen's irritated glares - as he continued speaking. "Oh, they're all just a bunch of pompous old men. The worst they can do is threaten to sue your family and damage your reputation," he flapped a dismissive hand. "That's easy. Anyways," he continued, eyes narrowing. Tom tapped his polished shoe insessantly against the floorboards. "We will also need to procure a - ah, convincing  _replicate_ of a certain stone, and Griphook's specialty is forgeries of all sorts. He can spot a forged painting in about three seconds, flat." His voice rose in excitement, and a balding man with a pipe stuffed between his lips briefly removed the instrument to shush them. 

"Fascinating," Harry drawled in amusement, voice hushed. "Should I be expecting wedding invitations soon?" 

"Shut it. I told you, he's horrible," Tom insisted. "He's just a particularly skilled individual, and I - " 

The door they were waiting beside opened with a soft creak.

"Mister Griphook will see you now," a man spoke in a soft, polite tone. He kept his eyes lowered deferentially, and from the corner of his eye, Harry saw Tom's entire posture shift. Tom's expression seemed to shutter, from defensive and banterful, to the cold, collected crime lord Harry only saw on occasion. 

Harry shivered, feeling - despite his better judgement - turned on beyond reason. 

Now was  _not_ the time.

Before they entered, the attendant raised a hand. "If you would please," he commanded quietly. "Turn off your cellular devices. Mister Griphook finds the chime of a phone, and society's dependence on them, rude and enormously trivial." 

Obligingly, Tom and Harry fished out their phones and powered them off. 

Nervously fixing his cufflinks, Harry followed Tom and the attendant into an office not so different from Tom's. The room was rather small, but had a tall ceiling and an amazing view over the city.

Sitting in a desk chair Harry could only describe as a throne, was a man so short Harry wondered if they were in the wrong room. Gregarious Griphook, in all his glory, was a midget of a man with salt-and-pepper hair, swept into a greasy comb-over. He had unnaturally white teeth and a pointed face that would be handsome if it wasn't trapped in a scowl. He exhaled a puff of smoke through his nostrils and stamped out a thick cigar, the edges sizzling and disappearing with a wisp of smoke. The man's dark, beetle-like eyes seemed to slide over Tom, settlimg on Harry. With an expression much like he'd swallowed poison, he gestured a hand. 

"Sit," he rasped, with only the bare minimum of pleasantry. "And be merry. I would offer you and your companion something to drink, Thomas, but your little _concubine_ looks underage. Wherever did you find him? The playground?" 

Harry fought back a gasp, and sat with stiff limbs beside Tom. The man's eyes lingered at the space between their chair and Tom scooted away. Harry tried not to feel hurt. 

"My, my, Thomas Riddle," Griphook drawled, "What a true pleasure it is to see your face. Desperate, begging doe-eyes, and all." 

Tom kept his face schooled, with only a single eyebrow arching. "I'm not begging yet, Griphook." 

"But you will be," Griphook said, bored. "You need me. Of course you do, I'm a  _commodity._ But the question is, are you willing to _beg_ for my services?" 

Clearing his throat, Tom removed a folded parchment from his pocket, a compiled list of the expected expenses and what Tom was able - and willing - to compromise on. "I will not beg, but I am willing to negotiate. The Death Eater's plans for March the twentieth involve - " 

"Death Eaters," the man scoffed, ignoring Tom's pragmatic explanations. "What a ridiculously paltry name. Did you come up with it?" his eyes narrowed, and Griphook seemed to read Tom like an open book. "Of course you did.  _My,_ would your founder be disappointed," he tsked, shaking his head.

Tom frowned at him, but the man continued, clearly enamored with the sound of his own voice. 

"'Death Eaters'. A once great fellowship reduced to an alliance of trigger-happy psychopaths, obsessed with the concept of  _death,"_ he smirked, lips stretching nastily. "Lad, there are far more profitable ways to achieve one's ends. Drain a man of his wealth, his credibility," Griphook pinched a pile of ash, letting it crumble onto the gilded ashtray. "And he will be  _desperate_ to do your bidding. I saw what you did to the poor, desolate Mister Malfoy. Ripped his reputation to shreds, and - for good measure - had him killed to tie up your loose ends. Clever. Very clever." 

Tom blinked at the compliment. "Thank you, but - " 

"But not clever enough," Griphook lifted a single finger, lips quirking in amusement. "I could see right through it, child," arrogance dripped from his words. Harry was a bit shartled at the sudden lecture. It seemed, for all intents and purposes, that Griphook believed  _he_ could do better. Was the man an usurper? 

"You were incredibly obvious, leaving a trail of bodies that lead right  _to_ you." 

Tom scoffed, his fingers clenched tight around the armrest. His knuckles bolded white and, beneath the table, Harry reached out to place a comforting hand on the man's tense thigh. "Such as?" 

"Such as hiring the recently detained 'Grey Wolf' to kill a college boy out of  _jealousy,_ and then letting the cannibal stew in prison when you promised him protection. After all, it was  _his_ fault he let the Creevey boy live, wasn't it?" Griphook mocked, in a high, mellifluous voice that Harry supposed was supposed to be an impression of Tom. "He ought to be _punished_ for his recklessness . . . never mind that you've done the same." 

Tom's high cheekbones flushed brightly. "That is  _not - "_

"Your morals are mercurial, at best. You ruined the Malfoy family, killed innocents out of pettiness, and then turned around to punish those who were loyal to you. I can't determine if you're drunk with power, or with  _sentiment,"_ he spat the word like a curse. "Either or, I'm not certain you deserve my business. If you're truly reliant on my sponsorship, I believe I at least deserve the privilege to speak with the ' _Death Eaters_ '," he scoffed at the name. " _True_  leader." 

Tom steadfastly refused to look at Harry. He feigned confusion. "You're looking at him." 

Griphook gave a sharp, disbelieving grin, and Tom visibly flinched. Harry stared between the two, truly bewildered

 _"Oh,"_ Griphook leaned forward, steepling his fingers. He was smug with knowledge, lording this power over the other. "Am I  _really?"_

* * *

**_Unknown Location_ **

Someone was shouting, high-pitched and muffled. Ron could make out a few choice swear words, screamed out desperately, before the noise abruptly cut off. 

When the canvas bag was finally yanked away Ron's head, the first thing he noticed was the smell. It wasn't  _unpleasant._ It was sweet like honey, but faintly musky. Soft particulates floated through the air of the old cereal mill, illuminated by golden rays of diminishing sunlight. 

Dazed, Ron blinked rapidly and tested the bands around his wrists. The plastic cut into his skin, tight enough to do some damage if he struggled too hard. He was in a rickety old chair, and seated right beside him was s gagged and bound Romilda. 

The last he recalled, they had been taken from the festival grounds, dragged into the bushes. Ron remembered darkness, and being shoved into the back of a rattling vehicle. He wondered if they had beaten into him a bit. He felt sore all over, and when he licked his bottom lip, he tasted blood. 

"Romilda?" he muttered, looking towards his date. She was tied up beside him, curly hair in disarray and one brown eye swollen. A dirty rag was tied around her lips, the fabric stained with blood. The beginning of a nasty bruise was growing beneath her eye, and Romilda seemed  _pissed._

She glared harshly as a scarred, skinny man stepped away from them. He grimaced at them, almost apologetic, the scars on his face stretching obscenely. 

A low chuckle filled the air. Ron tracked it to a shadowed corner, where a massive figure leaned against the wall.

"Weasley, eh?" his voice was gruff and raspy like a smoker's, tinged with a rough Scottish accent. "Let's hope you're a bit more polite than your lady friend."

"W - what?" 

" _W - what?_ " the man stammered mockingly, shifting in the darkness. "God, you're quite dull, aren't you? I think Riddle could do better. But then again," he stepped into the light. "Riddle hired _me_. His standards can't possibly go lower." 

There was something vaguely familiar about him, although that might've been his resemblance to the rabid dog Ron's brothers once tried to tame. The man was all grey hair, rotted teeth and muscles. He was shirtless, showing off an impressive array of faded tattoos and a wiry treasure trail. His pants, hanging low across his hips, were prison-issued grey cotton.  

"Who are you? What do you want?" Ron demanded, voice only slightly tremulous. 

"Who am _I_? Well, I'm disappointed. I rather hoped  _everyone_ would know me by now, seeing as my name and face has been plastered across the telly." He boasted. The word _braggadocious_ \- a phrase Hermione had been fond of - flashed through his mind. "I'm practically a celebrity; it's a delightful change. While I liked the anonymity of serial killing and assassinations, being declared a public enemy is much more  _fun."_

"Hey. Hey!" Ron realized. "You're the guy who killed that Creevey kid! I did an assignment on you for criminology - " he cut off, face going pale. "Oh, god." 

Fenrir Greyback, the infamous serial killer, 'The Grey Wolf', grinned. "Then you must know all about me."

" . . . How . . . I thought you were in jail."

Fenrir arched a grizzled brow. "Oh, so it hasn't hit the news yet? I can't blame them. It's quite humiliating once you realize how pathetically easy jailbreaks are - that is, _if_ you know the right people, and have enough  _friends,"_ He smiled unpleasantly at the man behind them. His teeth were crooked and yellow. "How rude of me. I haven't introduced you. Remus, say hello to our guests." 

The stranger, Remus, murmured a vague greeting. He wore the full prison jumpsuit, the sleeves rolled up his his elbows, and nervous patches of sweat stained his armpits. The only thing intimidating about him was the scars, lining his face and cutting it nearly in half. One of his eyes was hazel, while the other was a milky grey, like a full moon behind clouds. "Goodday." 

Under Fenrir's insistent stare, Ron quelled. "H - hi." 

Romilda, still bound and gagged, remained infuriatingly quiet. Fenrir stalked over to her, and pulled down her gag.

"Say  _hello,_ little girl." 

Romilda heaved a breath, glaring furiously. "Fuck you." 

With one, gnarled hand, he yanked her hair back. Romilda shrieked, the sound strangled. "You have quite the barbed tongue, my dear. You wouldn't want me to _rip_ it from your pretty mouth, would you?" he warned, leaning over her. His hot breath was rank and wet. The delighted gleam in his eye told Ron that Fenrir would just  _love_ to follow through on his threat. "Use your manners."

"Do it," Ron whispered to her, hushed. "Please." 

Romilda's gaze flickered to him briefly, before reluctantly fixing on Fenrir's 'friend'. "It's a  _pleasure,"_ she spat. 

Remus looked pained. "Indubitably."

"Excellent," Fenrir said, pleased. "See, even for a ruthless killer, I know  _manners._ Unlike this little princess," Fenrir released Romilda's hair, running a soothing hand across her scalp. His ragged nails scraped against her skin, and Ron could tell she was fighting back tears. "She tried to bite me when I grabbed her, did you know?"

He crouched suddenly behind her, leaning in to brush his nose against the arch of her throat. The muscles clenched and fluttered, as Romilda tried pulling away. He growled in her ear, his breath rancid and hot, like an animal's. "I like a little spitfire, but  _I_ do the biting around here, is that  _clear?"_ He punctuated this by snapping at her throat, not quite making contact, but enough to have her flinch away. Romilda trembled from head to toe, from a bitter mix of rage and fear.  

Fenrir gave a throaty laugh. "Calm yourself, little girl. I won't hurt you. You were merely  _bait,_ to lure this stupidly brave boy to your rescue."

"W - why me?" Ron asked, trying desperately to divert Fenrir's attention. "What did I ever do to you?" 

The man gave a twisted smirk. "My pack has seen you entering and exiting Riddle's 'secret' headquarters for many weeks now. I've done my research. You're one of six boys from a large, obnoxious brood, and you're utterly inconsequential, aren't you? Unintelligent, untalented, unappealing. Easily replaced. No onewould care if you suddenly . . . went missing. You're clearly the weakest link in Riddle's massive chain of  _sycophants,"_ the man spat the word like it was poison on his tongue. "And predators always go for the weakest prey first." 

Fenrir moved towards one grimy window, and ran a contemplative finger across the glass. He licked the dirt from his pointer, nibbling on the skin.  

Ron sent a glance at Romilda. She was panting slightly, eyes red from withheld tears. She nodded imperceptibly at him, reassuring him that - while shaken - she was physically fine. While Ron watched Fenrir, Romilda kept an eye on Remus. The other man was motionless, silent, standing in the corner without a word. 

"Of course, in years past, _I_  could be considered one of Riddle's little  _flunkies,_  just as desperate for his approval." Greyback smiled, and if the man wasn't a psychopath, Ron would have called it self-deprecating. "I worked for 'im. Yeah, managed a few assassinations here and there. But hired, vigilante work is so  _boring._ Alvin Creevey was lower than dirt, certainly, dealing those videos of poor girlies and boys; I enjoyed mauling him. His son walked in on us. He was just . . . collateral damage. Delicious, succulent, collateral," his lips peeled apart, and Ron felt sick to his stomach. 

"Everyone just  _assumes_ I'm a vigilante; did you ever stop and think, maybe the corrupt and the rich merely  _taste better?_ They beg so prettily,  _swearing_ to change their ways. It was a good deal. In exchange for assassinating those ignorant pigs, Riddle would protect me from the judicial system," his mouth twisted in a vile scowl. "But he became  _distracted,_ and  _betrayed me!"_ His snarl echoed throughout the mill. Remus, in the corner, suppressed a flinch. "He left me in jail to rot, and so  . . . I took a better offer." 

"Let me guess," Romilda drawled, speaking against her better judgement. "Now you're out for revenge. God, did I  _step_ into a bloody film? That was so _clearly_ monologued. Did you practice that in front of a mirror?" 

Fenrir's expression shuttered with rage. "Little girl - " 

She tugged on her binds. "This has been a delightful conversation, truly - but how does kidnapping Ron prove a point to this Riddle person if - as you said - _'no one would care if Ron went missing'._ You said it yourself, he's inconsequential. What makes you think killing us would hurt Riddle? Or, what if - once we were dead, Riddle wouldn't find some way to take you down, too? Leaving a trail of bodies isn't all that clever." 

Fenrir's frown deepened. "Didn't think that far ahead, did you?" Romilda said, pitying. 

"I - " the criminal shut his mouth, before growling. He stalked toward a sliding metal door. "I must attend to some business," he spoke, forcing dismissiveness. "Remus,  _watch_ them - especially that  _girl!"_

He shoved the door shut behind him, and Ron released a breath he hadn't known he was holding. He jumped in the chair, the legs thumping fruitlessly against the ground. "Ugh. These are tight," he murmured. 

"Hey - kid," Remus stepped towards them, raising a knife. "Just because I don't - I don't _want_ to hurt you, doesn't mean I won't."

Ron immediately stilled, staring down the quivering shiv.  It was made of a worn, blue plastic and bound with twine. 

"You guys - you aren't all that prepared, are you?" Romilda asked, distracted the man. "You're still in prison wear, you carved that knife out of - what, a sharpened toothbrush?" 

Remus swallowed tightly, and twisted the blade nervously. "We didn't have a lot of time," he admitted. "Fenrir was in a hurry." 

"You don't want to be here," Romilda continued, soft. She batted her long, dark eyelashes, her eyes glistening in the sunlight. "You're not a kidnapper, or a killer. What did Greyback do? Force you to come with him? Blackmail you?" 

The man issued a shaky breath, his nostrils flaring. Somehow, her words seemed to open a floodgate. "I - I've never really hurt anyone before," He admitted. "I got in for disorderly conduct and indecent exposure. That, and a general disrespect toward authority landed me with up to six months in jail." His expression twisted, his face going slack. "I got pushed around a lot, but I did my time, dutifully. I was looking forward to going home - but then someone picked a fight with me, and things got out of hand. I was suddenly subjected to another three months. I was _desperate_." 

"So Fenrir offered you an out," Romilda said in dawning realization. "Did he offer this to many others?" 

Remus shrugged a bony shoulder. He was a thin man, almost emaciated, and every movement looked like it hurt. "I . . . I knew my way around the prison. I made myself a map, knew all the nooks and crannies. I was useful to him, but now I'm indebted," his tone, so incredibly soft, was barely detectable. 

"How horrible," Romilda purred. She leaned forward in the chair, and Remus unconsciously pulled the knife away. It was he true. He didn't want to hurt them, not even accidentally. It was Fenrir who snatched them off the streets, brought them here - Remus was, unfortunately, just along for the ride.

Romilda's eyes glinted. "You deserve a lot better than that pathetic, steroid-pumped sadist. You could help us - cut off these binds, and turn him in. I'm sure the police would be  _thrilled_ to have that - that  _beast_ behind bars. I work at the _Daily Prophet_. If they don't release you back into society, I will _personally_ ensure that your story gets told. Bad press, and the fury of the people will have them releasing you  _with_ compensation. You'd be free, and rich - you could get your  _life_ back."

The man was trembling now, and Ron could see the  _want_ in his mismatched eyes. Remus' dry lips parted, and he glanced down at the bonds around Romilda's wrists. "I - " his brows drew. "God, I  _can't!"_ He snarled, tossing aside the shiv. He yanked his hands through his hair, self-hating and manic. Ron wondered if he was high on something. "Greyback will find me, he will! With his new  _sponsor,_ I'd never be free. I'd be considered a traitor." 

"Honestly, though, who helped him escape jail?" Romilda changed the subject swiftly, her voice turning coy, inquisitive. "Fenrir is an idiot. It must have been someone powerful -and clever, like yourself." 

The man waved a hand, dismissive. "It was German man, that's all I know. The Aryan groups in prison raved on and on about him. Reminds me of an old, infamous  _Führer,"_ Remus said wryly, halting in place. His complexion seemed to pale even further, scars standing out like brands. "He liked the way Greyback 'purged the world of the weak and unworthy.' If you think Greyback is bad . . . "

"He sounds insane," Romilda agreed. "You can't possibly endorse that." 

"W - well, of course not," he was clearly conflicted. "I - I don't, I swear." 

"Then why are you  _helping_ them?" If she was able, Romilda would have thrown her hands in the air. "Please.  _Please._ If you let Greyback get away with this . . . Ron and I, we won't be the last innocents you'll watch die. Or be forced to kill."

Remus pursed his lips, eyes flicking between the closed door and the children. Ron watched their exchange with thinly veiled awe. He couldn't believe it was  _working._ "Fine!" Remus snapped, the fight leaving his body. "Fine."

Reaching into his pocket, he removed Ron's cell phone. It was already a cheap flip phone, but now the screen was cracked as well. Rom bit back a groan. 

"Er - um, here," Lupin awkwardly placed the phone into Ron's bound hands. Ron struggled not to drop it, blindly flipping it open. "Make a call, get some help. But keep it quiet," he warned. "You have five minutes. I'll watch the door." 

The man disappeared swiftly, swearing beneath his breath.

Romilda leaned her head back, breathing heavily.  "I can't believe you were flirting with him," Ron whispered furiously to her. "Our  _kidnapper_."

"It helped, didn't it? Honestly," she hissed. "Use your brain. I'm young and pretty, and they could do some rather nasty things to me if I'm not on their good side."

Ron took a moment to marvel at her.

"Don't look at me like that," Brown eyes rolled. Romilda blew a lank strand of hair away from her face. "This isn't something to be jealous over,” she informed him.

"No - it's just - you're really brave, you know that?"

Romilda considered it, and agreed. "I know. Now, who is this 'Riddle', anyways, that got us into this mess? What are you involved in?" Her eyes were bright with peaked curiosity. 

"I'll tell you later, once we get out of this," Ron stalled, nervous. "Hush, we're wasting time." He craned his neck, and bit his tongue, pulling up his contact list. 

"Who're you calling? Call the police!" Romilda insisted. 

Ron swore under his breath as his finger slipped to the number just below George's name. Groaning, he hung his head back, and raised his eyes to the heavens. The call went through, the soft ringing filling their silence. 

"Who did you call?" Romilda demanded again. 

Ron grimaced. 

" _Hello_?" a voice, confused and questioning spoke louder. " _Hello_?" The first time, the microphone had been muffled under Ron's thumb. 

"Er - yeah. Hermione?" 

 _"Ron,"_ Hermione said evenly, on the other end. Her tone was annoyed, and a tad suspicious.  _"Aren't you supposed to be on a date?"_

"Uh, yeah, but - "

 _"I can't really hear you. You have terrible reception. Can you call back later?"_  

"I can't, exactly," he shifted in the chair, trying to place the call on speaker. "This is difficult," he grunted. "Sorry, my hands are - er - rather tied. Behind my back, in fact." 

_"What?"_

"Hurry.  _Up,"_ Remus banged on the door. Ron cleared his throat. 

"Uh - so, erm, how are you?" He asked politely, voice pitching. 

"For God's sake," Romilda jerked forward in her chair, fed-up by the pleasantries. "Hermione, is it? My name is Romilda Vane," she enunciated carefully. "R - O - M . . . nevermind, it doesn't matter. This is life or death. We've been kidnapped by Fenrir Greyback, the Grey Wolf. No, seriously," she insisted. "Anyways, although my head was covered at the time, we traveled approximately six miles from the London spring carnival, to the east - " she glanced at the sun setting in the grimy window. "And now, we're in an old cereal mill, and I can hear train tracks from here. Does that help?"  

Ron could hear the frantic scratch of a pencil against paper. _"Immensely. Are you and Ron - "_

"Hurry it up," Remus hissed. 

"There are at least two men with weapons, one incredibly dangerous, the other not-so. Just, uh, bring back-up, if you can, and first aid - " Remus shoved open the door, barking  _'time's up_ _,' -_ "Just, please, come soon." her voice petered off with a desperate, pleading tone that betrayed her inner fear.

With Hermione frantically trying to regain their attention, assuring them that  _"I'll find you!"_  Remus snatched the phone away, and snapped it shut. 

"No more talking," he said, pointing a warning finger at the two of them. "No  _funny_ business." 

"Cross my heart," Ron said sarcastically.  

Rolling his eyes, the man shuffled back out into the hall, leaving them alone. Remus seemed twitchy and nervous, and Ron was rather glad that Romilda stayed quiet. He doubted they could push the man any further.  

"How did you - " he cleared his theoat, trying to calm his rapid heartbeat. Everything just happened so fast. And now their lives were in the hands of a _librarian_. "How did you remember all that stuff? Everything you said to Hermione." 

"I'm a journalist," Romilda said, as if that explained everything, voice trembling and eyes red-rimmed. She leaned back, suddenly drained, but managed to quirk a small smile. "It's our job to be annoyingly perceptive." 

* * *

**_To be continued . . ._ **


	3. Chapter 3

**_The Powerful_ **

**TanninTele**

* * *

_Disclaimer: All rights belong to J.K. Rowling, voiding that of original content and characters._

* * *

**III:**

Hermione, heart beating rapidly, stroked her fingers through Tonks pink hair. It was a tad greasy, the strands tangled and unwashed, but Hermione didn't mind - seeing as Tonks' head was  _in her bloody lap._

Unaware of her friend's intense sexuality crisis, Tonks was utterly enraptured with the movie playing on their little television. Her eyes reflected the flickering television screen, colors dashing across hazel irises. 

The lights were dim and the loft smelt of burnt popcorn. A pile of dirty dishes in the sink had risen to a damn mountain; on top, a still-hot pan was caked with scorch marks and mottled kernels.

Tonks had finished the bowl single-handedly and was damn proud of the fact, insisting they both deserved some down time from their life of crime. Tonks called it a 'girls' night in'; an incredibly rare occurrence with Harry as a roommate. Despite his proclivity for school girl skirts, Harry made it clear that he was  _not_ a girl.

Tonks laughed uproariously at the telly, and Hermione flinched her fingers back, afraid she'd been caught. Instead, Tonks pushed her head back like an insistent cat. Amused, Hermione continued her ministrations.

It was then that Hermione realized she had forgotten the movie's plot entirely. The current romantic comedy was some saccharine hetero-normative nonsense, and - to be honest - watching the pretty girl and even prettier boy on screen flirting unabashedly beneath an umbrella in the rain made her sick to her stomach.

The persistent buzzing of her phone snapped Hermione from her daze.

"Hm," Tonks said, pouting as Hermione pulled her hand away. "Do you have to get that?" 

"It's Ron," Hermione whispered back, flipping it open. "Hello?"

"Didn't you guys break up, though?"

Hermione plugged her other ear, shushing her. "Shut up. Hello?"

 _"Er - "_  a familiar voice, muffled and distant spoke. " _Yeah_. _Hermione?"_ Ron's voice shook, as though on the verge of tears, and Hermione wasn't ready to be on the receiving end of a grown man sobbing.

"Ron," Hermione sat straighter, upsetting Tonks' place on her lap. "Aren't you supposed to be on a date?"

' _Mute that, would you?'_ she mouthed to Tonks. Despondent, the long-limbed girl clambered off Hermione and snatched the remote. She wore an overlarge t-shirt, stolen from the back of a truck transporting unsold band merchandise. That had been a thrill.

"I can't really hear you," Hermione interupted, annoyed at the scratchy, halting signal. "You have terrible reception. Can you call back later?"

Just as Tonks was readying the television to press 'play' again, Hermione jerked upwards and lunged toward Harry's sketchbook. She found one of his colored pencils, but the tip snapped and she hurriedly found another. Her handwriting scrawled across the parchment, a stream of unintelligible words and symbols. 

Tonks tilted her head, curiois by natute. She had no clue why the words 'cereal' and 'trains' were underlined. Was Hermione making a shopping list?

"Immensely," her voice was hushed. "Are you and Ron - "

Hermione's mouth slammed shut, and with an expression of intense focus, she ripped out the paper. The person on the other end was practically begging, voice high and helpless.  _"Please, come soon,"_ is all Tonks caught before the connection was hastily cut.

Bottom lip trembling, Hermione clenched her phone in one hand and the note in the other.

"What?" Tonks asked, sitting on her knees. "What is it?"

"It seems," Hermione said, reaching down to grab her laptop. She booted up Google Earth, and exhaled sharply through her nostrils. "My ex-boyfriend has a history of horrible first dates."

Tonks gaped at her, before closing her mouth in a wry smile. "That's witty, really, but it doesn't explain a wit," Tonks informed her.

"Turn on the news," was Hermione's distracted elaboration. "The Grey Wolf has escaped."

"What?" Alarmed, Tonks changed inputs and flipped to a local station.

_". . . The public is warned that Greyback is likely armed and extremely dangerous. A special hot line has been set up, and any sighting of Greyback should be reported immediately - "_

"How did he even escape?" Tonks asked, lips parted in bewilderment. The newscaster showed a picture of him in prison grey, teeth snarled and his inmate number card snapped in half. "God, he's ugly." 

Ignoring her, Hermione clicked away at her computer, researching old mills and train tracks nearby; she had two locations in mind, and couldn't decide between the two. Finally, desperate, she scrawled out both addresses and shoved off the couch. "Grab your coat, and I don't know - your switchblade."

Struggling to yank on her jacket, Hermione dialled Harry, hoping that the boy was with Tom. She swore as it went straight to voicemail.

"Harry! Answer your damn phone," she berated. "Greyback has escaped prison and Ron's been taken hostage, god knows why. I don't know what the hell you have to do to convince him - get on your knees and suck his smarmy, cowardly prick - " she spat. "But Tom  _better_ send some reinforcements to the old Honey Hive cereal mill in East London. I know this has something to do with him, and once I find out - " she trailed off, voice sharp. "Call me back."

She snapped the phone shut and turned to find Tonks fully dressed; hair thrown back, flexible black pants beneath her t-shirt and weathered leather jacket hugging her chest. If Hermione wasn't already fighting for control of her emotions, resisting panic, she would've been caught breathless. Instead, she bit it down and alloted herself one cursory glance up and down Tonk's beautiful, confident figure. 

Tonks smirked at her, and spun her knife between long, nimble fingers - a motion that ought to be illegal.

"If Harry and Tom isn't able to help," she said, conveniently, having eavesdropped on the one-sided conversation. "I'm afraid we'll need a few more weapons in our arsenal. Catch." Thankfully, Tonks had clicked the switchblade shut before tossing it to Hermione. She caught it with a grunt and watched as Tonks reached into the coach cushions.

"What? Is that - ?"

"Tom's secret stash," Tonks confirmed, casually pulling out two loaded handguns. "He hid them here, just in case Harry gets into any trouble."

Fuming, Hermione pressed _call_ on her phone. She snuck it back up to her ear, ready to berate both Tonks and Harry at the same time. "Oh, so  _both_ my roommates knew about the loaded guns in our couch," she snarked, "Guns which could have gone off at anytime - "

"Nah, the safety's on," Tonks said idly, waving the gun at her. Hermione flinched back, and Tonks laughed. "Good thing I didn't tell you where Tom keeps the World War Two-esque suicide pills. "Tonks swore she could see Hermione's eye twitch. "Kidding, kiddding," Tonks said, placating. She wasn't kidding. She zipped up her jacket, hiding the guns inside. "Let's go hunt a wolf, yeah?" 

Expression tightening, Hermione nodded. "Yeah." 

Tonks keys jangled as she snatched them from their hook. "We're taking my bike." 

"Wha -  _no!"_ Hermione insisted, darting forward to keep up with Tonks' confident strides. "Not the bike  _and_ the guns! We're not - "

"Hooligans? Oh, Hermione, just admit it." She grinned, the smile vibrant with the thrill of the chase. "We  _totally_ are."

* * *

Head tucked in the crook of Tonks' shoulder, curls suppressed by the bike helmet and a death grip on Tonks' waist, Hermione was petrified with fear.

She kept her hands firmly away from Tonks' breasts, clutching the fabric of Tonks' straining leather jacket.

Tonks seemed to be enjoying herself, flying at breakneck speeds down the highway. Hermione lost count of the wailing horns they'd left in their wake. Eyes squinted shut, she only lifted her head to shout the occasional directions. Soon, they left the city's boundaries and approached the outlying industrial district. A cluster of warehouses and factories billowed smoke into the air, and the dirty sensation of smog made Hermione's skin itch.

"The mill is abandoned, but we're looking for a yellow silo," she leaned forward to shout in Tonks' ear. Tonks revved the bike in response, skidding them off a ramp.

The street was silent as they pulled up beside a stout, derelict warehouse. A rusted white van was abandoned in the alleyway, and Tonks parked beside it. She kicked down the stand, carefully extracting herself from Hermione's grip.

"Is this it?" she asked, staring up at the boarded-up windows and the faded  _Honey Hive_ logo on the crumbling brick. It seemed just the place that a helpless modern maiden would be held hostage. Except, in this case, the damsel in distress was Ron. Tonks wanted to make a joke, to brighten the stresses, concerned expression on Hermione's face, but Hermione had already hopped off and was making her way to the door.

She rattled the lock, frowning. "Locked from the inside," she mused, turning reluctantly to Tonks. "Can you just - shoot out the lock, like they do in movies?"

"Uh, no. The bullet would definitely ricochet," Tonks shook her head. "And then we'd have a more pressing issue than your little boy-toy."

"Don't call him that," Hermione winced. "He's just my friend." Taking in a deep, calming breath, she began to contemplate the building's exterior, hands on hips. "There has to be some sort of fire escape."

While Hermione wandered around the warehouse, Tonks kicked at a spare chunk of rock. "You wouldn't go running empty-handed and without backup into a hostage situation if he was 'just a friend'," she said under her breath, but in the quiet, her voice travelled. 

Hermione spoke from afar, tone soft. "Well, I've got you, don't I?"

Tonks felt her cheeks go red, and she bit down on her smile. A rustle of wind swept through her hair, and Tonks lifted her face to the darkening sky. The rumble of trains clicked and clattered in the distance.

"Ah!" Hermione exclaimed victoriously. Her shoes crunched against the ground as reached toward a scaffold suspended in the air.

Zagging upwards was a series of platforms and ladders, but the lowest ladder was lying in a twisted pile of rusted metal at her feet. She scowled tightly, too short to reach the scaffolding. Suddenly, pale hands wound around her hips, and Hermione was lifted upwards by her taller and stronger roommate. She grabbed the ladder tightly and hoisted her legs up and over. She peered down at Tonks. "Think you can manage the jump?"

Tonks made a scoffing noise. "Don't start doubting my amazing parkour abilities now," she tossed a gun up to Hermione, and tucked her own into her waistband. Hermione handled the weapon carefully, pinching the handle with her thumb and forefinger.

"Ready? Watch out." Tonks gave herself a bit of space, before running and jumping off the wall with a grunt. The metal rattling, she caught the platform's edge and - with Hermione pulling her up by the elbows - triumphantly grinned. "Easy as cake," she said, breathless.

Hermione's knuckles were white as she clutched the handrail. The added weight only made the fire escape more unstable. Hermione gestured with the gun held loosely in her other hand. "I don't even know how to shoot this thing." 

"It's simple," Tonks raised her gun, aiming at the clouded moon. "Center yourself, prepare for the kickback, aim and shoot.  _Pew, pew,_ " she mimicked. "You'll do great." Clapping Hermione roughly on the back, Hermione stumbled back, the fire escape shuddering.

She was horrified. "Don't  _do_ that."

Tonks ventured on and up, ascending the ladder until she found a window; the glass was grimy and the boarding planks torn from the frame. She peered through a streak in the grime, and spotted a blur of red hair. "Oi. Found him," she said, almost casually. "Good job, 'Mione. We got it on the first try." Tonks peered back and saw Hermione carefully climbing the ladder, expression pale. It seemed as though panic was finally sinking in. Tonks took in a deep breath. Hermione would  _not_ be happy with this. "Um . . . I think we'll have to break the window."

Hermione's face twisted at the thought of property damage, but her answer surprised Tonks. It wasn't so often Hermione supported Tonks' crazy ideas. "Do what you have to," she said, resigned. 

Methodically, Tonks tucked her hand into her sleeve, clenched her gun and braced herself. Swaying back and forth twice, she closed her eyes and forcefully shattered the glass with her shoulder. Sharp pain erupted down her arm. Following her momentum, Tonks rolled into the warehouse, dust picking up in her wake. Shards of glass were embedded into the nice leather.

Standing, she shook them out and looked around the room, as though barely fazed.

"T - Tonks?"

She glanced up at Ron, smirking at his flabbergasted gape. In the darkness, Tonks looked like an avenging Valkyrie, glass partiles and dust shimmering around her in a cloud of miasma.

Hermione, in contrast, tentatively crawled through the window. She slid off the windowsill onto the floorboards, maneuvering around the shattered glass. She stilled, looking entirely uncomfortable, faced with her ex-boyfriend and his grudgingly impressed date. "Hermione?" Ron stammered. "When I called you for help, I expected you do alert  _Tom,_ not -"

Tonks coughed into her hand, distracting them. "My  _god_ , it's dusty in here. Alright, ladies, lets get you out of those binds."

She removed the switchblade from her bra and crouched behind Ron. "So. How's your date been?" she teased, slicing his bonds with little effort. The plastic ties fell away, and he flexed them gratefully.

"Just splended," he grumbled. 

"Oh, and  _you're_ Hermione's replacement, aren't you?" Tonks took care of Romilda, cutting the rope with a bit more violence than necessary, and considered that - with the length and sharpness of her fake nails - Romilda probably could've cut the binds herself. Perhaps she hadn't wanted to break a nail. "Ron's a real catch, isn't he?"

"He was a perfect gentleman," Romilda agreed, massaging her wrists. She shot Ron a dark glance. "Up until he got us kidnapped and threatened by an overenthusiastic wolf-man and his puppy."

"Puppy?" Tonks wrinkled his nose. "What do you - "

The  _shink_ of a door opening alerted Tonks. Quick as a whip, she swung around, gun in hand and fixed it on her ex-boyfriend's chest.

"Excellent fucking timing," Romilda commented. 

It took a moment for Tonsk to recognize him. Remus' hair was buzzed short, he was about two stones smaller, and had at least one new scar since she last saw him. Although his kind eyes and trembling figure should've calmed her, Tonks only stepped closer, raising the gun to his head.

"D - Dora," he stammered, lifting his hands. His sleeves fell back, and Tonks could see a shiv strapped to his forearm.

"Drop the weapon," she commanded, voice unwavering. "Do it, now."

Moving carefully, eyes fixed on her gun, he reached toward the knife and tossed it aside. Hermione scrambled after the shiv - wincing at the worn, germ-ridden plastic handle - and tossed it out the open window.

"Dora," Remus spoke again, softer. "If I knew he was calling you - "

Tonks mocked his tone. "You would've . . . what? Served your innocent hostage a bit more damage than a split lip? What the  _fuck_ are you here? I thought you'd be out of jail by now."

"Technically," Remus paused. "I am. Just not  _legally."_

There was a brief, tense moment, in which Hermione was sure Tonks would shoot him for his lip. Instead, Tonks snorted, and began to lower the gun. "I'd hoped prison would've shaped you up a bit, Remy. Given you - I don't know - a _backbone_. Or was that to much to hope for?"

"You haven't changed a bit, Nymphadora Tonks," he said, almost fond. "Dyed hair, armed to the nines." Remus nodded at the shattered glass, exuding an air of calm he certainly didn't feel. "You always knew how to make an entrance."

"Yeah," she twisted her face at him, and raised the gun back up. "And you always knew how to ruin my day. Listen up," she barked. "I'll shoot you if I have to, Remus," Tonks was kind enough to warn. "Where is Greyback?"

Fear darted through his one, good eye, and Remus pointed a trembling finger. "He's in the office, on the phone with his benefactor. He's already angry, and once he learns you guys escaped . . . I can't believe he didn't hear the window shattering."

Hermione and Tonks exchanged a glance.

"Let's cut our losses while we can - "

" - let's kick his arse," they spoke at the same time, Tonks with a wild gleam in her eyes. 

Hermione glared. 

She gestured pointedly at the window. "We can just leave through the window," she insisted. "We  _really_  don't have to go barging down there, guns a-blazing, to go head-to-head with a serial killing cannibal."

"You might not have to," Tonks said grimly, cocking her gun. Remus gaped at her. The safety had been on while she'd been aiming at him. "But  _I_ do."

With that, she spun on her heel.

Hands on hips, Hermione stomped after her, bickering the whole while. "You can get your adrenaline rush  _later._ Go bungee-jumping, or - I don't know, join a marathon - "

As they disappeared into the hall, Ron thrusted a thumb toward the window. "I'm - uh - gonna go," he told Romilda.

She smirked, and beat him to the sill, hopping onto the fire escape. "I'm way ahead of you."

Ron lingered behind, thrusting out an expectant hand at Remus. "Phone," he demanded, blandly.

Unconsciously, Remus dropped the device into his palm and muttered an absent farewell. Ron vanished down the fire escape. 

A good minute passed before his brain caught up to his mouth.

"Dora!" Remus shouted, tripping over his feet. He bounded down the steps, catching up to the girls outside the factory office. It overlooked the mill, and the door was suitably intimidating. "Wait. I - I wanted to - "

"Fuck off, Remus," Tonks shouted over her shoulder. Hermione gasped at her language.

" _Tonks!"_

Rolling her eyes, Tonks grabbed Hermione by the hand and tugged her close. "Take a good long look, Remus. I've moved on."

Adrenaline pumping through her, Tonks planted a deep, intense kiss on Hermione's lips, shutting the girl up. She swallowed the girls' gasp, and moved until her hands - gun and all - were splayed across Hermione's back. After a moment, Hermione reciprocated, melting against her, their bodies slotting perfectly together.

Muffling a swear, Hermione pulled back, not realizing her hands were tangled in Tonk's pink hair. She released her grip and smoothed down the cowlick, leaning her forehead against Tonks'.

"Is now really the time?" she asked, soft and amused.

Tonks met Hermione's eyes, the chocolate irises blown with desire and surprise. She kissed Hermione again, lips stretching in a smile. "We'll continue this later," she whispered, hot air brushing against wet lips. "Now. Are you gonna help?" she directed at Remus, face flushed and body tingling.

Remus had averted his eyes, staring at the ceiling in embarrassment. "I would," he cleared his throat. "But you threw out my knife."

Tonks sniffed, clutching Hermione's hand in hers. "You're a coward," she told him. "I hope you're happy with the life you've chosen."

With that, she shoved open the door to an abandoned office, the lighting dark and a tall figure standing in the middle.

" -  _ja, es ist_ Greyback," he spoke in halting German. G - R - E - Y - for god's sake," he glanced over his shoulder, seemingly unbothered by the two, gun-toting women standing at his door. "Just tell your motherfucking  _boss_ not to have an exclusively German-speaking secretary," he spat into the phone. "You dumb, fucking  _fraulein - "_ shaking his head, he lowered the phone from his face.

"Ah, so the little boy called for reinforcements," Fenrir mused, shutting the burner phone. "Unfortunately, you caught me at a rather bad time. I suppose they've escaped, then?" Instead of anger, or devastation at the foiling of his plot, Fenrir laughed at them, voice sharp and teeth even sharper. "They won't get far. I have friends, you see - friends that would like to bring the Death Eaters down, as slowly and painfully as I do. At least you made it easy for me. Tom's  _best,_ serving themselves up to me on a plate. And such  _tender_ appetizers, as well," he purred, readying himself in a crouch.

Hermione couldn't stop staring at his teeth. He didn't need guns or knives; his bare hands were weapons. He could tear out her throat with a single bite -

"Take the shot, Hermione," Tonks insisted, under her breath. "It'll be anti-climatic, but get him while he's monologuing."

"Yes, take the shot, little girl," Greyback teased, twisting his furry, silver head at them. The muscles in his legs tensed, rippling up his body as he flexed his fingers. "You'll be so  _juicy._ All moist and  _fat - "_

Hermione saw red. "You do  _not_ call me  _fat!"_ Mind buzzing, still distracted by their passionate kiss, Hermione aimed wildly; she shut her eyes, planted her feet and pulled the trigger.

Greyback screamed like a girl.

* * *

By the time Tom and Harry left Gringott's Club, it was nighttime. 

They hailed a cab in silence, Harry stealing glances at his blank-faced boyfriend. Tom was deep in thought. Harry was almost hesitant to ask - what in the name of  _hell_ had just happened? 

Expelling a long breath from his mouth, Harry removed the top three buttons from his dress shirt and leaned back into the tilled back seat. He loosened his tie and tossed it onto Tom's lap. "For a fashion major, you're awfully reluctant to dress up," Tom spoke quietly. He untangled the tie from his long fingers, clenching the fabric tightly before letting it fall. This was good. If he was able to crack jokes, Harry needn't walk on egg shells around him. 

"So . . . " Harry turned his head toward him. "Are we not going to talk about what happened back there?" 

"That's correct," Tom said shortly. "It cost an arm and a leg, not to mention my dignity, but he's backing us, and that's all that matters." 

Sighing, Harry dug out his phone and pressed down the power button. Tom would take his embarrassment to the grave if he had to. 

It took a good five minutes for the screen to light, and one by one, his phone pinged for each missed message. 

"Jesus. Hermione called me, like, a hundred times," he was exaggerating. It was closer to three, but she'd left voicemails all three times. Harry typed in his voicemail access number, and plugged one ear. He stared out the window, watching streetlamps and night walkers blur past. Tom looked up as Harry gasped, reaching for Tom's leg. He clutched it in distress. 

"Oh, god. Ron's been taken hostage," he whispered, air expelling in panicked, soft breaths. His green eyes were wide and luminescent. 

Tom moved fast, turning on his phone. "Put in on voicemail. I can arrange an emergency task force - "

"No, wait," he lifted a finger, concentrating intently. He pressed speakerphone. 

Hermione's shrill voice lectured. _" - Guns which could have gone off at_ anytime _\- "_

"Hermione's found your guns," Harry told Tom unhelpfully. The voicemail ended and the last one automatically began. Rustling, shouting and the sound of bullets were all they heard. "Buttdial," he murmured, before realizing. "Holy shit." 

Tom grunted, leaning forward to shut the barrier between the curious cabby and them. In his other hand, he rapidly typed out a text. "Call her," he demanded. 

Harry deleted the voicemail, and quickly rang her up. 

_"Took you long enough."_

"Hermione? Thank God you're alright. How is everyone?" 

Breathless, Hermione reassured them that all was well, and the authority had been contacted.

 _"Ron called the police. Greyback is being taken to the hospital because, somehow a bullet became lodged in his left testicle,"_ she sounded uncharacteristically smug. " _No one else is hurt; just a few scratches here and there, nothing serious. In fact, Ron and Romilda are currently snogging behind a bush,_ " Hermione informed them, tone darkening with disgust. 

Distantly, Harry could hear Tonks' snide comments. _"Oh, they're just taking advantage of the adrenaline rush. Come on, 'Mione. Everyone else is getting in on the fun."_

Hermione seemed to push her away, speaking fondly;  _"Quiet, you. Not now. I'm on the ph -_  oh _,"_ her voice faded with the sound of something wet smacking, and Harry quickly ended the call. 

"Well," Tom said, blinking in vague surprise. He stared down at Harry, a slow smile breaking past his cool exterior. "Seems that's under control. Your roommates are more capable than I realized. I taught them well," Tom said, a hint of pride in his tone.

Harry snorted, tucking his head into the crook of Tom's shoulder. "Yeah, sure,  _Professor_  Riddle. Think they're ready for the twentieth?" 

Tom grimaced. "God, I hope so." 

All was well. 

For now. 

* * *

**_To be continued . . ._ **


	4. Chapter 4

**_The Powerful_ **

**TanninTele**

* * *

_Disclaimer: All rights belong to J.K. Rowling, voiding that of original content and characters._

_Chapter warning: fluff and hot lesbians._

* * *

**IV:**

"He's actually quite cute," Narcissa mused, gently bouncing the newborn in her arms. He had one tiny hand wrapped around her thumb, and the other placed bracingly on a warm bottle. "When he's not wailing for milk."

Scorpius Zabini was an attractive child, born of Serena's son and the famously beautiful actress, Astoria Greengrass. His hair existed in charcoal cowlicks, his skin like rich chocolate. His button nose was speckled with little freckles that Narcissa took the opportunity to count when he fell asleep in her arms. There were twenty-one in total. 

"Hm," Serena powdered her own freckles, blinking rapidly in the vanity mirror as concealer floated around her. Her hair was piled up in a complicated bun that seemed easy when Serena deftly twisted it up and around. Her deep purple gown was made of a smooth velvet, a leather belt constricting her already slim waist. Her stilletos  were discarded by the bed, the heels sharp enough to impale someone. Narcissa had a brief, heated flashback of the time Serena had worn them to bed; with a baby in the house, it was hard to squeeze in sex between Serena's work, child-rearing and sleep. But it was well worth it.

"He must take after his _other_ mother." Narcissa said with only the faintest bit of derision.They tiptoed around Astoria's name, both disapproving of her sabbatical to Havana.

As Scorpius suckled at the bottle's nip, Narcissa considered with smugness that Astoria was most certainly experiencing a consistent leaking in her breasts, perhaps pumping the milk every so often only to throw it away. Scorpius would always be in the back of her mind, a haunting of  _what might be -_ but Narcissa was secure in the knowledge that  _they_ were Scorpius' mothers now. A united front, protecting him from the world. Certainly, if Astoria decided to reappear in their lives, they wouldn't  _discourage_ a friendly relationship between Astoria and her son. But Narcissa was far too attached to the boy to let him go so easy.

"Perhaps. But, no, you're a good boy, aren't you, Andy?" Serena twisted in her seat, giving a fond, dark-lipped smile to her grandson. Her lashes were voluminous and her lips stained a deep purple that brought out the flecks of brown in her eyes. "Mummy was just teasing." 

Out of respect to Astoria, they kept Scorpius' given name but called him 'love' and 'darling' and _'piccolo andrea'_ \- little man - as often as possible; the latter was quickly shortened to Andy, in honor of Narcissa's late sister. 

Standing with a yawn, Serena stretched her arms and padded barefoot toward them. Narcissa moved her legs so Serena could sit ar the end of the bed. Serena arched one delicate foot and carefully strapped on her heels, Scorpius blinking at his  _nonna_ , letting the nip slip from his mouth. Tsking, Narcissa pushed it back in, and he immediately continued his meal. 

"Are you _certain_  you will be safe tonight?" Narcissa asked, stretching her legs back to gently nudge Serena. 

Serena peered over her shoulder, arching a thin brow. "Doubting my abilities, love?"

"I'm doubting your ability to stay awake," Narcissa said bluntly. " _I'm_ exhausted, and _I_ don't run a fashion industry while streamlining as a part-time assassin and a full-time mother."

"No," Serena agreed, leaning forward with a slight smirk. "But you manage Grimmauld with an iron fist - just as ludacrive as my business," she said, teasingly pressing a kiss on Narcissa's lips. Sharp nails carefully trailed down the pale, prominent cheekbones; touch tender, so not to leave a mark on that smooth, perfect skin. Scorpius, trapped between them, gave a soft protesting noise.

"All will be well, Cissa," she assured, pulling back to wetly kiss Scorpius' cheek. The boy tolerated it regally. "Take a nap, little hellion. Try not to wear your mother out, hm?" 

Narcissa huffed, flipping a strand of hair from her face. "You'd best come back alive," she warned, before pausing. "And without a warrant out for your arrest." 

Entirely serious, Serena nodded. "I have a reason to be careful, now. Hm, romantic entanglements are such an  _inconvenience,_ don't you think?" She teased. "Playing peekaboo is really just as scintillating as robbing a bank or assassinating a prime minister." 

Narcissa wasn't even vaguely apologetic. She looked down at Scorpius. Stomach sated, his intensely dark blue eyes began to drift shut. "Pick up some more diaper cream on your way home." 

Snorting, Serena finally slipped on her other shoe. She stood and swayed toward the door, hips entrancing. "No Zabini has ever been afflicted with something as frightfully unseemly as a  _bum_   _rash_ in generations." 

"He's a baby," Narcissa reminded her, icy eyes soft and amused. "He doesn't have a choice in the manner."

* * *

Nervous beyond reason, Hermione fidgeted in the backseat of the rented limousine. An errant lock of hair fell into her eyes, and she twisted it idly between her thumb and forefinger. She met the gaze of the chauffeur in the rear view mirror.

"You look gorgeous," Tonks said eagerly, her face open, calm and devoid of any make-up beyond concealer. She had dyed her hair a sleek, unremarkable brown for the occasion. With her low-brimmed military cap, grey suit and thick fake glasses, Tonks was nearly unrecognizable. She even changed her eye color with a pair of contact lenses, murky green eyes blinking back at Hermione with a familiar determined gleam. "And you'll do absolutely fine." 

Slowly, Hermione released a breath and lifted the loose curl up into her ruby hair comb. The jumpsuit matched perfectly, and Hermione paired it with a number of costume jewels that Romilda Vane had made specially for the operation. 

Romilda's access to  _The Daily Prophet_ and her artsy hobbies had proved invaluable to the Death Eaters. She and Ron were, amazingly, still together. It appeared a shared trauma did wonders to their relationship skills, not to mention their eerily accurate foreplay and role-playing. An accidental butt-dial (Ron was prone to those) had Harry in a panic -  _was Romilda a spy, and was she holding Ron hostage in their bed . . ._ oh. Oh, God. Horrified, he'd swiftly hung up, and had told no one except Tonks. And then Tonks told everyone. 

There were a few close calls. As the heist grew closer, Ron was away more often, ditching dates with sheepish, guilty expressions and poorly thought-out excuses. After a lost deposit on hot air ballooning, Romilda had enough. 

She ' _convinced'_ him to introduce her to Tom by withholding sex and teasing him, only to back away once he was flushed and bothered with a solemn  _'you owe me.'_

With an extreme case of blue balls, he snuck her into _T_ _he Hog's Head -_ or,  _attempted_ to sneak her in. Of course, Aberforth had noticed immediately, and Tom was waiting for them at the entrance with crossed arms and murder on his mind. 

Romilda, a clever woman, recorded their conversation and Tom's thinly-veiled threats, swearing that she would leak Tom's identity to the press if he didn't _shut up about paperwork and let her join._

Exasperated, grudgingly impressed and used to blackmail when it came to hiring criminals, Tom believed he handled the ordeal with grace and steadfast professionalism  

She was initiated within the hour, introduced to the others and her recording destroyed. Or, at least, the one copy Tom knew of. 

Romilda brought in handmade friendship bracelets the next day, claiming they all would be the best of friends . . . _or else._

Tom never wore his, but - after an intense conversation with the twins, Harry, Hermione and Tonks (Ron was excluded due to a conflict of interest) - decided she would assist them in stealing the Philosopher's Stone. 

Hermione dragged herself from her thoughts as Tonks slammed on the brakes to avoid running a red light. Usually, Tonks would be ignoring traffic laws left and right, but Tom had warned her against drawing undue police attention. 

"It's not  _me,_ I'm worried about," Hermione sighed, irritated. She wasn't even lying. Not really. 

Their task force was becoming bigger and bigger, and alterations were being made at the last second. The more people involved, the more privy they were to human error. One misstep, bad timing, a forgotten cue - they could bring months worth of hard work crashing down. 

Not for the first time, Hermione wondered why Tom would trust them with this. Harry, Hermione, Tonks, Ron and Romilda - they were just college students and interns.

They weren't trained. They weren't criminal masterminds. Not  _all_ of them, at least. 

Hermione snuck a glance up at Tonks.She could understand why Tonks was an asset. 

The girl was savvy and skilled, entirely in her element as she excitedly tapped her fingers on the steering wheel. She was impulsive, self-confident, beautiful - Hermione could go on for days listing Tonks' best qualities. She could understand why Tonks would fit in with the Death Eater's. 

Harry, too, was charming, sly and one of the loyalist men she knew; in a heartbeat, he would put his life on the line for those he loved.Unsurprisingly, Tom was head over heels for him, protective as hell, but able to maintain a healthy relationship despite Tom's more . . . illegal past times.

Tonight, Harry was remaining with Tom at  _The Hog's Head,_ running reconnaissance and manipulating matters from behind the scenes. He was  _useful._

Without Harry,  Hermione wouldn't be here, in this dress, and Tonks wouldn't have found her 'one true calling' (as she'd waxed poetically one night.)

That made her wonder. Without Hermione, would this all have still been possible? The simple, uncomplicated answer was  _yes._

She wasn't necessary. Despite her vast storage of knowledge, she wasn't omniscient. Hermione wasn't a great actress, she had a moral compass that was almost debilitating at times, and she certainly wasn't a good shot. Only a short while ago, she shot her first bullet, lodging it into the left testicle of Fenrir Greyback. While _hilarious_ and wildly praised by her peers, even _that_ was a fluke. She'd been aiming for his leg, to slow him down, and had flinched upwards right before pulling the trigger. She had nightmares of that bullet missing Greyback and hitting Tonks instead, both girls dying a brutal death at the filthy hands of a cannibal.

Tom had an entire arsenal of trained assassins, thieves and chaotic good troublemakers at his disposal. 

Why  _her?_

Even without Hermione, Serena Zabini could've been convinced to go undercover alone. Tonks would have no entanglements holding her back. Ron and Romilda probably would have never have been dragged into this mess - 

And Hermione would be alone.

She'd be just a librarian assistant, high-strung, insecure,  _lonely._ She wouldn't have Harry as a confidant, Tonks as a - as a  _whatever_ they were. 

Hermione swallowed tightly, pulse thrumming wickedly in memory of their shared kisses, their late nights together, curled up in Hermione's bed. If Hermione never met Tonks, she'd still be deeply in the closet, repressed, depressed and missing out on something  _wonderful._

Almost as if reading her thoughts, Tonks gave Hermione a quick smile in the mirror, pulling up in front of Grimmauld Place. "We're  _here,_ " she sang. She sent a quick text to her Aunt Narcissa. "Serena will be out soon. Best cleanse your mind of all those self-doubting thoughts now before 'the games begin'," she quoted, snickering. 

Oh, God. It really was happening. 

Hermione leaned her forehead against Tonks' seat, taking several frantic breaths. She felt a bit queasy. The rational side of her conscience slowly began to seep in, providing steadfast reassurance, encouraging her to place her head between her knees as she swallowed back bile.

It was no good wondering her use, her necessity when, clearly,  _something_ about her made Hermione worthwhile - to Tom, to Harry, to Tonks. 

She didn't know  _what,_ yet, but she supposed . . . Hermione nodded to herself, resolute. 

She supposed that tonight, she'd find out. 

"Wicked," is all Hermione heard, before she looked up and saw Madam Zabini swaggering out the front door.

Serena was god-like in shimmering velvet, her hair extensions plaited in a gorgeous up-do that revealed razor-sharp cheekbones. 

If Hermione wasn't sure of her sexuality before, she was now. Jealously, she glanced at Tonks, who watched Serena in much the same manner of awe. Hermione felt a pang in her chest and nearly folded in on herself, when Tonks glanced back with a playful smile; the smile Hermione had fallen in love with. Tonks shrugged a slim shoulder. "She's like . . . _Beyoncé,"_ she said. "But you look _way_ hotter." 

Pleased, Hermione's cheeks flushed the color of her jumpsuit. With a  _click_ of the rear left door, Serena slipped into the limosine, smooth legs slotting into the small space. Hermione moved over diligently and gave her a shy smile. 

"Hello, girls," Serena said smoothly, removing a pocket mirror from her grey hand-bag. She prodded at her lipstick with the pad of her finger, fixing a non-existent smudge. "My apologies. I was saying goodbye to Narcissa and - well, it got a bit . . . heated," she winked at Tonks. "You two understand." 

Hermione gasped, affronted. "You  _told_ her about us?" 

"I bragged to nearly everyone on my contact list," Tonks said unabashedly. "Hermione. Don't give me that look. You're certainly worth gloating about."

Serena watched them, eyes soft. "Ah, the honeymoon stages. Adorable. Don't worry, even when the shiny veneer begins to wear off, and you vegin to bicker every ten seconds, the make-up sex will still be amazing." 

"We  _already_ bicker every ten seconds," Hermione grumbled, crossing her arms. 

"Hm. I suppose I know how the sex is, then." 

Putting the car into drive, Tonks smirked at Hermione's clear outrage. She changed the subject, taking pity. "How's the baby? You know, Cousin Tonks is always available to babysit." Hermione snorted quietly from the backseat. Tonks made an affronted noise. "What? I'm great with kids." 

Serena leaned her head back. "Narcissa and I might just take you up on that. Parenting is different than it was twenty years ago. Its apparently frowned upon now to dope your baby with rum to get a good night's sleep."

The scary part was, Hermione wasn't sure if she was joking. But as Serena eased herself into conversation, complaining and cracking sardonic jokes, Hermione had a stark epiphany. 

Despite her deadly passions and intimidating beauty, Serena Zabini was no goddess. She was passionate, loyal and courageous beyond belief, but she wasn't infallible. She was fucking exhausted - that much they could tell, even behind her copious makeup. In the dim light of the car, her fingers stained with lipstick, a spare eyelash on her cheek, she was just . . . human. 

As was Tom, as were the twins, as were Harry, Tonks and Hermione. They were smart, determined, and frankly  _greedy_ humans, willing to do whatever it took to get the job done. 

As Tonks cracked a joke and Serena bit out a muffled snicker, Hermione felt herself relax. 

They'd be just fine.

* * *

When they reached the heavily patrolled exhibit, showcased in the outskirts of London city, Tonks told them to get their game faces on. 

The building was an architectural masterpiece amidst skyscrapers, affixed with a large garden and a driveway for guests to be dropped off at the door. It was a ballroom for the elite, and Hermione felt out of place, just in the drive. 

"Fashionably late, eh?" a security guard, peering out of a booth, gave Tonks a quick once-over, glaring. 

"Terribly sorry," Tonks put on a demurring, deeply thick Irish accent. "There was an incident on the way here," she lied. "We're her now." The less information, the better.

He took their invites through the open window and inspected them shrewdly with a small torchlight. 

"Do hurry up," Serena drawled from beside Tonks, thrumming her nails against her knee. It was astoundingly easy for her to play the part of a rich bitch. "I'm famished.

Watching her movements carefully, Hermione mimicked her pompous expression, leaning boredly against the window. 

The guard gave a thin smile, handing the card back. "Enjoy the exhibit," he said sarcastically, clapping the car's roof. Tonks slowly pulled through the gardens, the setting sun casting a gorgeous gleam across the bubbling fountains and pure-white, early blooming lilac bushes. 

She drove slowly down the drive, reaching a large set of doors, intricately carved. A sign reading  _Magic is Might_ in sparkling golden font directed them inside. 

"Good luck," Tonks said mildly, unlocking the doors. She watched carefully as her passengers ascended the marble steps. The skirt of Hermione's train rippled behind her, and the girl waved an idle hand behind her, lips pressed in an expression Tonks recognized - it was the expression Hermione wore moments before pulling the trigger, castrating Greyback. She was fucking ready to raise some hell. 

Tonks blew her a kiss.

Fighting proud tears, she sidled around the corner of the building. Tonks parked beside a large rubbish bin; the only thing even vaguely unclean about the entire building. Releasing the brake shift, Tonks brought down the small overhead mirror and removed the military cap from her head.

Her hair fell in a sheen of dark hair, extended and straight, much unlike her usual short, pink waves. She rather liked the new look. Tossing the cap aside, she opened the glove compartment and removed a thick, heavy tool belt, a black ski mask, and of course, a gun. Just to be safe.

She'd almost gone with a fanny pack, but Harry found the idea horrifying and couldn't bare to watch her attempt to buy one at an old woman's garage sale.  _'A tool belt would be just as effective!'_ he had told her, green eyes wide with the very idea of a fashion _faux pas._ Tonks only smiled mysteriously at him, infuriating him more at her seeming lack of fashion sense. 

 _Please,_ Tonks thought, stepping out of the car. She checked her reflection in the glossy limousine exterior. In the all-black suit, clunky tool belt and all, she looked damn  _hot._

There came a muffled cough, and a polite pounding noise. Rolling her eyes, Tonks checked to insure no one was watching.

Tonks had methodically timed their late arrival, to insure everyone else had arrived and the security guards were lax. However, that security guard gave the impression of being the sort to tase Tonks at even the smallest perceived misdeed. Thankfully, the car was hidden out of sight and in the shadows, but even the walls had eyes. 

Glancing up at a security camera tucked discretely into the corner, Tonks gave it a thumb's up. From a distant vehicle, George faithfully switched off the camera and at least two others in her vicinity. The blinking red light halted, and Tonks swooped around back of the car, throwing open the trunk.

She looked Colin Creevey up and down. The kid, weedy, blonde and pimple-faced, was curled up comfortably with a superman pillow beneath his head, an open bag of crisps in his lap and his phone illuminating his greasy face. For Colin to agree to this, all she had to do was pay him half in advance and set up a wifi hotspot, and he was golden. 

"Who was that girl with you?" he asked around a mouthful of crisps, having been privy to most their conversations, due to the poor soundproofing of the interior walls. "I watched her walk away through the keyhole - she has quite the sway to her hips," he said lecherously. 

In the past, she may have agreed and cracked a euphemismistic joke about how those hips certainly didn't lie . . . but Hermione was  _hers_ now. And Tonks wasn't one to share.

Glaring, she helped the boy climb from the luggage compartment. He brushed the salt off his clothing, a nearly-identical suit to hers, except his was wrinkled and stained. "Curiosity kills the cat, Creevey. She could shoot your balls in." 

His eyes lit up. "Oh! So _she's_ the one who shot Greyback in the cobblers? Wow."

"Yeah, she's also my girlfriend," she scowled, bringing the ski mask over her head. She hoped it made her look intimidating, but the kid only seemed amused.

"You look like you make a hobby of raiding convenience stores. Hey, to finish the ensemble, just put your hand in your pocket to pretend you're armed - " he proceeded to mimic the action, saying  _'pew, pew!'._

Tonks yanked the 9 mm pistol from her waistband and cocked it, the sound echoing. "This look fake to you?" she waved it in his face, the boy's mouth falling open. 

"Well," Colin composed himself, safe in the knowledge the gun wasn't  _really_ meant for him. "That works too." 

Getting the hint his company wasn't wanted, he held his hand out for his payment. Tonks forked over nearly a hundred pounds - stolen, of course. Licking his pointer finger, though it was greasy enough from the crisps, he counted them out. "Alright," he hummed, pleased. "Thanks for this, and thank your girlfriend for me. That son of a bitch she shot killed my dad and mauled my baby brother." 

"Your dad, a child pornographer," Tonks reminded him, frank and unamused. 

He palmed the cash, shrugging uncomfortably, looking pointedly at the gun she'd reholstered. "We all have our faults."

Tonks released a sharp-toothed smile, not ready to fight him on this right now. Little idiot still needed to grow up quite a bit. "I guess I'll see him in hell, then. _Go,"_ she gestured to the car. "Get out of here, before they get suspicious. You're a good kid," she added. "I hope this doesn't kick-start your life of crime."

Walking backwards, Colin saluted her. Hopping in front of the limo, he whistled, fondling the polished, leather bound steering wheel. " _Sweet_ ride."

"Lucky for you. It's yours for the next three hours," Tonks said over her shoulder, approaching the brick wall of the _Magic is Might_ exhibition. "Bring it back by midnight, Cinderella."

" _Hey!"_

Ignoring him, Tonks lifted a hand to her bluetooth, flicking the little switch to turn it on. "Bubblegum Bitch, in position," she, using a loose brick as a hand-hold. Good thing she was an expert at recreational rock climbing. Wow. So very fortunate. 

Quietly, Hermione chimed in, tone hushed.  _"Shakespeare and The Black Widow in transit. We're entering the exhibit."_

 _"Er,  I'm here as well,"_ Ron said awkwardly.  _"With George - sorry, sorry - 'The Holy Ghost,"_  he said, irritated. _"And 'The Love Doctor', too . . ._ _and, um, well. I know I should've gone before, but I kind of have to pee."_

Six feet in the air, dangling from a window sill, Tonks groaned. 

* * *

**_To be continued . . ._ **


	5. Chapter 5

**_The Powerful_ **

**TanninTele**

* * *

_Disclaimer: All rights belong to J.K. Rowling, voiding that of original content and characters._

_Chapter Warning: lots of fire and implications of domestic abuse. Not my best chapter, as I had a doctor's appointment today for a kidney problem and I haven't been feeling well.  Regardless, I hope you enjoy the heist's build-up, at least._

* * *

**V:**

The exhibit was bustling when they entered, shiny spotlights glinting off glass displays. The shimmering gown of a woman dressed in silver nearly blinded Hermione

Polite commentary washing over them, the room was filled with warm bodies and a susurrus of chatter. Soft music flowed from a distant orchestra, the human of violins and the whistling serenade of a woodwind.

Hermione was in awe.

Portraits and stone tablets lined the walls, one showing a beautiful, naked Babylonian goddess, the Queen of Heaven. Beside it, a self-portrait was made of 'The Fat Lady'; supposedly, a Grecian mortal courtesan of Hermes. She was depicted as incredibly self-indulgent, a lover of food and of men. It was painted on a plank of wood in gray and indigo, with only a spot of red - apparently, her own blood - to portray the drunken flush of her cheeks. 

Safe behind velvet ropes were numerous artifacts, spanning thousands of centuries and representing many different cultures. A book with wrinkled pages, a sword made of pure gold, a gnarled, mummified hand . . . 

Little plaque-cards read the history of each item, their mythical origins and their eventual discovery and restoration. Hermione bowed over the small inscription of a supposedly cursed Opal Necklace, the milky stone gleaming like a sightless eye. It was originally given to the consort of an ancient, Brother's Grimm-esque prince, wrapped lovingly around her throat for only a day before a tragic horse-and-buggy incident claimed the woman's life. Since then, it had inadvertently witnessed the deaths of nineteen more. It was found buried in a garden by a woman named Katherine Bell, who suffered a deadly seizure three days later, and - 

 _"Hermione,"_ Serena whispered urgently in her ear, masking her annoyance with a smile. "It doesn't pay to become distracted." 

Hermione nodded, sheepish, and tore her eyes from the exhibit. She looked upwards, under the guise of utmost, open-mouthed, stupid wonder. The ceiling of the ballroom, itself, was a work of art, made in recognition of Michelangelo's Sistine Chapel. While it wasn't domed, the flat roof was painted with heavenly images, the crown molding a border of brilliant gold. A trembling diamond chandelier cast sparkles of light over them.

Tilting her head, Hermione estimated if the golden, honey-comb ceiling vents would be large enough for Tonks to slip through. They were, with room to spare.

She brought a finger to her ear, speaking softly. Serena, greeting the other guests, moved closer to Hermione as though they were having a conversation.  _"The nearest access point is directly above the 'Fat Lady'. Bubblegum Bi - "_  she swallowed, not wanting to finish the vulgar code name.  _"She'll need at least a minute extra to reach the Mirror."_

Her eyes trailed to the Mirror of Erised, standing tall as the exhibit's masterpiece. It's golden frame was twined with flowery symbols and runes, the looking glass almost smoky with age; in it, the crowd's reflection was distorted and grimy. At the peak of the mirror was a ruby the size of Hermione's hand. The exaxt color of oxblood, it was jagged and imperfect, but somehow majestic in it's flaws. 

"It's beautiful," Hermione told Serena truthfully,  _sotto voce._ "I wonder how they - " 

"Gossiping already, ladies?" 

A man, with a shock of pepper hair reaching down to his chin and a golden-skinned woman at his side, sidled up to them. His grin was wide, annoyingly cheerful, while his wife looked bored out of her mind. Hermione couldn't understand how anyone could be unaffected by the sheer  _history_ around them.

"Amos Diggory," he introduced, squinted gaze fixated Serena's trim figure, though he offered his hand to Hermione. His sweaty palm glinted. "And my wife, Reba. You are?"

Serena smiled blithely, the corners of her mouth tense. She answered for Hermione, who had folded her hands behind her back in utter refusal to shake his hand.

"My niece, Jean." For her alias, they had decided on Hermione's middle name, to maintain a sense of anonymity and general commonness. No one blinked twice at 'Jean', while the less common 'Hermione' raised a few eyebrows.

"Ah, I should've guessed a family resemblance," he clucked his tongue. Hermione and Serena risked a glance at one another - although they were both dark-skinned, Zabini's family was Italian and Hermione's from Trinidad. There was no resemblance, other than that, but they were relying on the ignorances of others. "Though you - ah, certainly fill out your dress a bit more than your aunt, dear," his eyes finally pulled away from Serena's beauty to linger on Hermione's breasts. 

Hermione's brows furrowed, but the man  _just kept talking._

"It's a dime a dozen to find young 'uns interested in this stuff," Amos flapped an idle hand. "I'd have invited my son, Cedric, if I thought he'd enjoy it. But the boy would rather spend the night with his girlfriend, if you know what I mean," he winked, delighted. "Ah, young love. I almost thought the boy was queer, until he come home with his girl. Though, she  _is_ rather tomboyish - she wants to be a police officer! Can you imagine?" he barked a laugh, as though the idea was ludicrous.

Beside him, his wife twitched in poorly concealed resentment. She attempted to pull her gloved hand from his elbow, but he seemed to be a strong man beneath the layer of softness. "Do you have someone special in your life - er, Joan?" Even that, he couldn't get correct. 

"Yes," she said lightly.

He smiled, very intrigued. "O-ho! What lucky man - " 

"Woman," Hermione interrupted. "I'm in a delightful, loving relationship with a  _woman._  Sir."

"I am, as well," Serena added, delicately taking Hermione's elbow in a show of solidarity. "Me and my partner have a child together, in fact. A son." 

"O - oh," Amos gaped. He swallowed tightly, inching backwards ever-so-slightly. He latched onto her last few words. "Another son? At your age?" 

Despite Serena's serene, unwavering smile, he seemed to process his mistake. He coughed into his hand, hot and wet. "I'm certain, after so many years of marriage and tragedy, that you wish for some companionship. But is that  _arrangement_  . . . very . . . erm . . . conductive to the boy's growth?" he stammered through the second, burying himself into an even deeper hole."With no fatherly influence-" 

"I assure you," Serena said. "That my partner and I are certainly  _man enough_ to rear a child. I don't suppose you'd understand that, would you?" she let the moment linger, for a moment, and let the dark gleam in her eyes speak for her. Amos gaped, incredulous. 

"Your dress - it's very beautiful," Reba said quietly, trying to change the subject. Thrill, however, was evident in the slight quirk of her lips. 

Hermione's hands smoothed the gown gratefully. "My friend, Harry, made it."

"It's lovely," Reba tried to continue, before her husband forcibly tugged her away, returning to his wits.  

"Let's speak to the Abbotts, shall we, love?" Amos said with a forced smile. "It was - ah - good to see you again, Serena," he glanced at them - between Serena's brows, as if afraid to look in her eyes. He seemed to forget Hermione's name once more, and simply nodded shortly, pulling his wife toward a crowd of blondes. Serena's gaze lowered to Amos' grip on his wife and her pained expression. Her smile tightened, ever so slightly.

They left. Smiling freely once more, Serena leaned towards Hermione, air brushing against her ear. "I believe I've chosen my next victim. Do you think Reba will object?" 

Hermione bit her lip, and considered his under-the belt insults, masogyny and homophobia. "Not in the least." 

With that, they continued mingling; and thus began the excruciating small talk. 

* * *

"The Black Widow and Shakespeare are in sight," Fred said, peering out the staff-only door. "Entering the dining hall now." He spoke quietly, uncharacteristic for the boisterous, roguish man. But he was ' _in character',_ and _when in Rome . . ._

He slid a hand back, checking his reflection the the door's diamond-shaped, rubber framed window. With his hair sleaked back in a dark, dripping gel, he was likely breaking a dozen kitchen health codes, but he looked like a sexy, douchey cooking competition host. Dressed in a costume-like uniform, he felt rather distinguished in the double-breasted black uniform, collar patterned with houndstooth dress-shirt and sleeves cuffed to his elbows. They'd even made him shave his arm hair. 

 _"Good, Rodent,"_ Tom spoke in his ear, pleased.  _"Things are on-time, then?"_

"Yep," he popped the 'p', turning his back on the door. It swung shut, enclosing him in the kitchen, which was nearly as full as the exhibit. Fred puffed out a sigh. 

He wasn't quite sure about his mission here today; Fred was no chef, barely able to make a bowl of macaroni and cheese without adding too much milk. Someone, currently, was flipping a delicious-smelling steak on a grill, while another was chopping a carrot with inhuman-like speed. He would  _not_ like to be on the other end of that knife.

"By the way," Fred added, staring at the knive's wicked sharp edge. "These code-names are lame. I want something cool, that makes me seem rakishly handsome," he drawled. "Like Rapier, or - "

"Talking to yourself?" a nasally voice came from right behind Fred.

He spun around, gaping down at a short, skinny man with a clear case of Napolean complex. The man's pointed nose was lifted in a vain attempt at intimidation, his voice high and suspicious. The man's carefully curled handlebar mustache distracted Fred from catching his next words, the pitch too high a frequency for most animals to discern. " - must be a scintillating conversation to distract you from _your job_." The man procured a clipboard out of nowhere, pushing up his glasses to glare at him. "Your name?" 

Fred blinked, and rose to his full height. "Fredrick Rapier," Fred affixed a thick, exaggerated French accent, pronouncing his alias as  _'rah - pièrre'._ He dipped into a low bow. "Formally trained sous chef, at your disposal. You are?"

The man eyed him suspiciously. "Filius Flitwick; the _maître d_ ', _"_ he spoke in fluent, smooth French. "Where were you trained?" 

"Uh - " he thought quickly to himself, remembering an old commercial that played on his family's cable telly; it only had three channels. The news, French cooking (his mother enjoyed tsking at the French's obsession with _fromage_  and _baguettes_ )and an evangelist channel. _"Le Radis Rouge,_  of course."Clearing his throat, Fred began to loudly chant the school fight song, upbeat and frantic, like he was at a spirit rally. _"Nos couteaux ne manquent jamais de couper les fruits, alors que d'autres écoles coupent le fromage - "_ The man halted him with a wince. 

"Please. Alright, Rapier. I believe you," he said, exasperated. He rolled his fingers, beckoning Fred deeper into the kitchen. They strolled past several stations, the herbal and meaty scents tantalizing to the constantly hungry young man. Fingers quick, Fred plucked the chocolate garnish off a vanilla bean dessert, and stuffed it between his lips. 

Flitwick halted beside a tall, high-heeled woman, her hair pulled back in a fashionable black chef's hat. He gestured impatiently at her, clearly in a hurry. 

"This is Madame Rosmerta, our head chef. Do as she says, not as she does. Madame, this is Monsieur  _Rapier,"_ he pronounced it with a sneer. "He claims to be our missing sous chef." Truthfully, their sous chef was knocked out in an alley, with a pillow beneath his head and a spare hundred dollars in his wallet to pay for the uniform - and the missed paycheck.  

Rosmerta, a pretty woman with red lips stained with wine, smirked at him. "Grab a ladle, kid. I'm sure you can't screw up soup." 

Fred saluted her, a bomb bouncing in his uniform pocket, and reached for a random utensil. "A  _ladle._  That's a whisk,"Rosmerta stressed, tossing an overlarge spoon into his hands. He lifted it to eye-level, staring at it in faint confusion. She shook her head, charmed. "You're funny, kid. But get to work," with that, she deftly sliced a pineapple straight down the middle.

Fred think fell in love, a little. 

* * *

Round tables were set beside the orchestra, playing directly to their left, the screech of the violin slightly off-putting. As the music met a crescendo, the opulent chandelier above head shuddered, ever so slightly.

Hermione wasn't normally a paranoid woman (her internal voice, which sounded a lot like Tonks, snorted at her), but with every scratch of a chair being pulled out and the murmur of voices ordering food, she felt herself becoming more and more on edge. Smoothing out the skirt of her jumpsuit, a nervous action, Hermione sat tentatively beside a pair of red-haired women. They spoke in hushed tones to one another, a sisterly repertoire that Hermione was not privy to. One was plain-faced and dressed in a conservative turquoise gown, while the other was . . . startling to witness, at first.

She had a liberal amount of work done, her pale breasts bulging and her lips plumped, bumpy and red, as though she'd had an allergic reaction. Hermione took a moment to ensure she wasn't,in fact, having an anaphylactic response to the shellfish  _hors d'oeuvre_ on her plate - but no, the woman was giggling happily, though her face had no change in expression. 

"The MacDougal sisters," Serena whispered to her. "Isobel and Morag."

Serena was a veritable fountain of gossip and scandal, having been subjected to upper class social circles her entire career. People seemed to treat her like anathema, both drawn in by her magnetic personality and warned to stay away due to her reputation. She didn't seem to care one way or the other.

"Isobel is a bachelorette and her younger sister a divorcée," she confided, flicking her fingers at an attendant to order a glass of red wine. Her voice lowered another octave. "At around seventeen, Morag was married this  _awful_ older man who insisted she . . . _retain_ her youth and beauty while she still had it." Hermione winced. "Her family wasn't told until after the procedure, but by then, the damage had been done," a waiter filled her crystal glass and Serena spoke into it, trying, at the very least, to be discreet. "Isobel liberated her sister by, ah, _discovering_ some evidence of her brother-in-law's obsession with young, young girls,  and delivering it to the police. It was a huge scandal, but," Serena shrugged, and Hermione could see the rigid muscles in her upper body clenching, receding. "Morag was made a very rich woman, and they started a business helping insecure young women recover from trauma. They call it  _Bel's Castle . . ._  In my line of business, most of the women I  _assist - "_ 'free from their husbands, she means', "End up at the Castle. I've always respected their passion," she nodded kindly at the large-lipped woman, whose eyes sparkled in recognition. 

"Serena!" Morag said, her voice far younger, far sweeter than Hermione expected. She spoke with the slightest of lisps, and Hermione tried very hard not to stare at her lips - or her boobs. "I'm wearing one of your dresses," she said, proud, thrusting out a arm for Serena to inspect the lace sleeves. "We had to alter the bodice a bit," she blushed. "But the design was gorgeous." 

"You look beautiful," Serena told her serenely. 

 _Was this all these women spoke about?_ Hermione thought as Serena and Morag launched into a conversation.  _Clothing and boob jobs?_

"This shellfish tastes under-cooked," she heard someone say from afar.

"Did you see his  _tie?_ It's the color of my baby girl's pea puree, except . . .  _paisley patterned_. Even worse. Oh, yes, thank you for asking. She's eleven months now, we're very proud." 

"You know, if the 'Fat Lady' was around nowadays, no one would touch her ugly cu - "

Other voices began to drift through, meeting her ears, overwhelming and stifling. Hermione clenched her fingers around the stem of her glass, filled with ice cold water, condensation dribbling down her wrist. She flinched as someone reached over to uncurl her death grip. 

"You're going to shatter the glass," Isobel MacDougal said gently. "I've done it a fair share myself; it's humiliating, and you'll forever be known as the girl with the tight grip." Hermione raised a brow. Isobel finished the thought. "Men will, of course, take it entirely the wrong way. They'll flock to you, waggling their brows, wanting a quickie in the loo. As though that'll make them any less gay," she pointed a finger directly at a very well-groomed man with a doting wife at his side; however, his gaze was fixed on the arse of a nearby waiter. 

Hermione nearly snorted, lifting a hand to cover her mouth. 

Isobel nodded her head toward the men rudely posturing on the Fat Lady's ability in bed. When he thought no one was looking, one of them quickly hid behind a vase of orchids to pick his nose. "They call themselves 'gentleman', but I've seen school dropouts with more class." 

My god, Isobel was nearly as versed in gossiping as Serena - except she wasn't afraid to humiliate everyonein vicinity, very, very loudly. 

"No one is talking about the artifacts," Hermione said, mournful. "Centuries of history right behind that door, a rare showcase of precious artifacts, and no one gives a damn. You'd think, if they're all sponsors and archeologists, they'd at least .  . . make an  _effort_ to appreciate it."

The red-head lifted a slight shoulder. "These things tend to become a bit boring, after you've looked at the same damn painting for three hours. You should've arrived earlier - there was a whole crowd chirping excitedly about the mysterious Mirror of Erised, with a secret message carved into the frame. What could it mean? What could language could it possibly be in?" Isobel rolled her eyes. "Then they realised it was just a particularly sparkly mirror, and the inscription was just a poem written backwards." 

Hermione made a wounded noise. Personally, she thought the backwards message clever.

"Personally, I'm here for the food," Isobel confided, prodding at her bowl of soup, sad and grey. "Which leaves much to be desired. Whose cooking back there? It tastes . . . sweet, somehow. Like they used sugar instead of salt." Hermione fought a smile, thinking of Fred in his kitchen uniform. Perhaps she'd avoid ordering the soup tonight and convince Serena to do the same. 

"So are you a sponsor, too?" Hermione asked, changing the subject. 

"Yes," she took a deep sip of wine to wash the soup's taste from her mouth. "My mother, Alexandria MacDougal, was _obsessed_ with the Library she was named after. She studied archeology in college, but dropped out when I was born - my father thought she would do better as a housewife than an educated women," Isobel mumbled, clearly irate. "But whenever he gave her an allowance, she donated it all to the Library - for research and recovery. She died before the Book of Thoth was recovered, so . . . Morag and I are here for her sake. In her honor." 

It seemed that everyone had a sob story to tell, today. 

Hermione's let out a shaky breath, regretting the fact she was - technically - only at the exhibit to steal from it. So many people had worked to restore the Mirror and it's peers. All these untold stories, all these broken pasts, with only rotting remnants of history to remind the MacDougal sisters of their mother. What was she  _doing?_

Just as Hermione opened her mouth to respond - an apology, an admission . . .

The fire alarms went off. 

* * *

In the kitchen, Fred had been dutifully stirring a huge pot of indiscernible broth (he couldnt identify one soup from another, sue him) for nearly ten minutes. The smell, once delicious and hearty, was quickly becoming obnoxious as he watched vegetables turn to mush and chunks of meat bob up and down.

As steam billowed in his face, Fred scooped some soup and filled a tray filled with bowls. A waiter would occasionally come by to grab the bowls, disappearing with barely a 'thanks'.

Bored, Fred had begun tipping immense amounts of cinnamon and sugar into the pot, ruining the taste. There had been at least three complaints, and he took them all with grace, nodding solemnly at the ungrateful waiters, pretending that he gave a damn what those rich fucks thought about his soup. News flash; he didn't. 

Fred slipped a hand into his pocket, touching the cool plastic of the fire bomb. It's anatomy was based off the incendiary bombs of World War Two, with an internal trigger and a capsule filled with incredibly flammable chemicals. Now, without his brother at his side, Fred felt a bit unprepared for the bomb's consequences. They had practiced, over and over, preparing for every possible outcome; his eyebrows were singed beyond repair, reminding him that even controlled fires were still  _fires._

Closing his eyes, he nodded to himself, and set down the ladle. He was supposed to wait until half-way through the first course, when tension was most high in the kitchen and security, in contrast, were at their laziest. What were these posh germaphobes going to do at dinner, start a food fight? 

"I'm ready _,"_ he whispered into his blue-tooth, slipping the capsule into his sleeve. No one was watching; no one had paid him an ounce of attention beside the ever-wary  _maitre d',_ who had just fluttered off to assist a geriatric guest that had problems eating solid foods. Fred could almost imagine little Flitwick cutting the bits of food and hand-feeding them to to man or - he bit down a laugh - regurgitating the food like a mama bird fed it's babies.

Goodness, he was spiteful today. Was his reverse classism showing? 

 _"Do it,"_ Tom urged in his ear.  _"Do it now."_

Taking a bracing breath and leaning far, far, away, he thrusted the capsule beneath the soup pot. He waited, tense, for something to happen. Seconds passed with no reaction, and Fred took a tentative peek; on the open flame, it's degradable exterior began melting away until the flames licked at the priming composition. Fred hissed.   _"It's not workin - "_

With a metallic  _clang,_ heat billowed, cascading over Fred's body. He threw himself back, an arm up to protect his face from the splash of heated soup. Fred shrieked, as if he'd been burned. 

"Fire!" A waiter shouted. They dropped their tray, a steak falling with a splat, and used a towel to bat at the flaming stove. The corner caught on fire, and he screamed, throwing it at the ground beside Fred's fallen body. He stamped on it, hard, bumping into a table of cups and making even more of a mess.

With a spray of cool water, the sprinklers went off, soaking their uniforms. The chemical fire persisted, billowing upwards toward the racks of pots and pans. Fred scrambled backwards, bumping into Rosmerta, who calmly yanked at the handle of a fire extinguisher

A cloud of white surrounded Fred, catching in his hair and giving him time to rip his shirt sleeve away for the grand reveal. Panting, Rosmerta glanced down at Fred, wine-stained lips falling open. Though she had intended to give him a sharp lecture on kitchen safety, her eyes drifted to his burns. Her hat was soggy from the sprinklers and slipped off her head with a wet  _splat._

She sighed at the mangled state of his arm, and his trembling pout. "I guess you  _can_ screw up soup. Someone call an ambulance!"

Fred found himself bit insulted, so he flicked the external trigger on the second bomb. 

He allowed it to roll out of his jacket and beneath a wooden cutting table. After three ticks of the bomb, it went off. The table was engulfed in seconds. " _Again?_ " Rosmerta snarled, wheeling around. 

That fire, unfortunately, was not so easy to put out, Rosmerta learned. 

Someone screamed.  

* * *

**_To be continued . . ._ **


	6. Chapter 6

**_The Powerful_ **

**TanninTele**

* * *

_Disclaimer: All rights belong to J.K. Rowling, voiding that of original content and characters._

* * *

**VI:**

The ambulance that arrived shortly after was secretly filled with computers and surveillance.

Ron was having the time of his life driving it, the sirens wailing and the large vehicle rocking back and forth as he nicked the side of a curb. George clutched the sides of his laptop tightly as Ron made an abrupt, screeching stop at the gates of  _Magic is Might._

"For fuck's sake," George murmured to himself, glancing over at Romilda, who was casually reading her cell phone while perched atop the portable cot. "Is he drunk? I thought he told Tom he was ' _the_ best _getaway driver.'"_

Romilda gave amused shrug. "This is him being careful." 

The security guard at the gates spoke in hurried tones to his walkie-talkie, glaring at Ron as the boy's foot inched toward the acceleration. Fire alarms wailed inside the exhibit and the guard reluctantly let them through.

" _Thank you,"_ Ron breathed, surging through the gates. He shook his head, and muttered; "Arsehole. Are you ready back there, Mildy?"

George bit back a laugh at the nickname. " _Mildy?"_ after saying it out loud, he couldn't stop his laughter. "Really?" 

Romilda stuffed her phone down her bra, nose in the air. "Shut it; my family calls me that. Ron thought it was cute." She shamelessly adjusted her white, tight-fitting cotton top, the nurse scrubs unpractical in their erotic nature. 

"That's not all he thinks is 'cute'," George said mildly, before turning back to his computer. He had eyes on numerous cameras in and outside the building.

He wasn't some blackhat genius; he was smart, but not  _that_ smart. Instead, they'd bribed a janitor with a pack of Abernath's good vodka to prep the building. People tended to dismiss and ignore waitstaff and sanitation workers. Really, it only took a little time out of the custodian's day to, say, write down the username and password to their surveillance program, or to leave a tub of floor wax on the staircase to the roof. 

Ron pulled around the side of the building, nearly running over a disgruntled waitress. The kitchen staff were stumbling out of the building, coughing and crying, a cloud of smoke billowing behind them. Being half-carried by a woman was Fred, acting his little heart out.

"God, it  _hurts!"_ he moaned despondently, draping his head against Rosmerta's chest. He caught sight of the ambulance, eyes widening in fear. "Do you think they'll have to amputate?" Fred whispered urgently, turning to grasp the loose fabric of her shirt.

Rosmerta rolled her eyes upward toward the heavens, asking for strength. "You'll be  _fine,_ kid," she said, clearly fighting irritation. As 'Nurse' Romilda approached, the cot rolling in front of her, Rosmerta gratefully thrusted him into the arms of the attractive nurse. "He will be fine, won't he?" 

Romilda took the sudden armful in stride, carefully lowering Fred onto the bed. He clutched his arm to his chest, whimpering pitifully. She leaned over him under the guise of inspecting his injury. 

"Hey there," he murmured, giving her a crooked, dazed smile. "Am I in heaven? Because _you_ look like an _angel_."

"Drama queen," she roughly strapped him to the bed, holding him down. Romilda donned an assured smile. "Of course. We'll take good care of him. The burn looks worse than it is." She pushed the cot up a ramp and into the ambulance.

At the top of the ramp, face twisted in confliction, she glanced around at the coughing kitchen staff. The anxious  _maitre d',_ who was shuffling guests out an emergency exit. The  _vieux riche_ were irritated beyond belief, hands over their ears to muffle the fire alarms. One old man in a wheelchair was struggling to roll through the crowd. Almost guilty, she added, "The fire brigade and more ambulances will be provided shortly. I - uh- "

As if sensing her internal wrestle, Fred let out a drawn-out whine; "I'm dying!" Kicking back into action, Romilda shoved him into the ambulance and slammed the doors shut. 

Immediately, Ron took off, dragging the vehicle out of sight. Fred relaxed into the cot, tired. "Whew. That took a lot out of me." 

"Yeah, good job, Fred," George commented absentmindedly. "You really convinced them that you're a huge cry baby."

"Acting is my calling," he agreed dramatically. Once Romilda unbuckled him, Fred sat up straight, flexing his arm. "This makeup pinches," he complained. 

"Poor baby,"  Romilda crooned, finding a pair of tweezers and a handful of moist towelettes. She carefully began peeling and wiping the liquid latex, removing the layers of red and brown paint. It really did look quite awful.

Fred rambled. "I still wish we'd done the ol' switcheroo trick instead; traded places like we did in primary, eh, Georgie?"

George snorted, half-ignoring his brother as he checked on Tonks' progress. With the exhibit cleared out for the fire brigade, she had free reign of the building. None of the cameras spotted her - a good thing, which meant she had found her way to the air vents. "Fred, we did that to Cormac last week."

"That's not so fun, everyone knows the difference by now," Fred pouted. 

The boy was moving too much for Romilda to fix his arm. She clenched his wrist tightly, warningly. "We already let you use your stupidly difficult gore makeup," Romilda said. "Now let me concentrate." 

Fred was dutifully quiet for a moment, before wiggling his fingers. "Well, it's a good thing we didn't decide to have my handsome face burnt off," Fred said, luring for compliments.

"You're handsome enough, sure," Sportingly, Romilda played along. "But I prefer my Weasley men with full capacity of their extremities." 

"This?" he nodded down at the burn, winking. "Just a flesh wound, dear. But trust me, I have full control of my  _other_ extremities." With a jerk, the ambulance clipped a wheel against the thick root of a tree. He scowled. "Oi, who's driving this thing?" 

Placing the car in park beneath a large weeping willow, Ron twisted around in his seat, face red. "Fred, seriously. Stop flirting with my girl." 

"I'm not 'your' anything," Romilda reminded him without looking up. "Possession of a person is an archaic concept." 

"You object to  _that,_ but you don't object to being called 'Mildy'? _"_ George wondered aloud. 

She sent him a glare that could melt glaciers. 

* * *

Crawling through air vents was just as gross as it sounded. It was the middle of fucking March in London, and just because it was the spring equinox didn't mean winter was done wrecking hell. So, naturally, the heater was still in operation and Tonks was sweating bullets. The all-black outfit wasn't doing her any favors, either, when it came to absorbing heat. 

Grunting, she squeezed her shoulders through the pipes and wriggled forward.  _"How you doin', Tonks?"_ Harry said in her ear, calm and secure. 

Tonks reached two fingers toward her mouth, pulling down the ski mask so she could speak. "Just fine," she said, voice rough, her throat lined with dust. "Dandy.  _Peachy,"_

 _"I get it,"_ Harry soothed. Even through the bluetooth, sarcasm dripped from her words.  _"It sucks. But it'll be over soon, and then onto the fun part."_

"Says you. You're probably . . . sitting in your boyfriend's lap," she huffed, "Sharing leftover chocolate from Valentine's. Cozy. Safe. Not covered in d - d- _dust_ ," Tonks sneezed, groaning as a sheen of snot dripped down her nose. 

Back at the  _Hog's Head,_ Harry glanced up, guiltily, at Tom. Were they really so predictable? He shifted uncomfortably on the other man's lap.

Tom rolled his eyes. He pulled the microphone toward him and cleared his throat, tone sharp.  _"Get back to work, Tonks."_

" _Hey_. I just realized," Harry twisted around, eyeing Tom suspiciously. "We never celebrated Valentine's." 

"It's a month too late, Harry," Tom said wryly. "But I accept your well wishes." 

"We didn't celebrate your birthday, either," Harry realized, jabbing a finger at his chest. "You  _deliberately_ didn't remind anyone - " Tom's face skewed in immense distaste. Harry was scandalized. "How could you hate your birthday?" 

"Some people hate Christmas or Saint Valentine's because of bad associations. This is no different," Tom spoke, blank faced. He grasped Harry's hand, pulling him close. "Harry, we don't  _need_ paltry holidays like Valentine's to showcase our love. You hate chocolate, and I hate the color pink. And we did spend my birthday together, celebrating the new year with a kiss at midnight - that was all the present I needed."

Harry pouted. "But  _Valentine's - "_

"Is a day celebrating a man who martyred himself, and it's also a day in which numerous people were massacred in America by Al Capone. It's really nothing to celebrate." Succumbing to Harry's pleading green gaze, Tom sighed. "I promise. Once this is over, I'll give you a nice ring to represent our 'undying love,'" he rolled his eyes, before stroking Harry's ring finger. He contemplated it. "Ruby, I'd think." 

Harry flushed brightly.

 _"Shut up, you too,"_ Tonks breathed through the com, lifting a gloved hand to touch the blue-tooth. _"You are so disgustingly adorable, I can't concentrate."_

 _'Sorry,'_ Tom and Harry whispered, hands still clasped. 

She had found a grate directly above an image of a fat lady in a grape-vine crown. Tonks removed a screwdriver from her belt, and shuffled back to get the right angle. The only sound echoing in the ventilation shaft was her heavy breathing and the occasional  _shink_ of a screw popping loose. 

Placing the screws between her teeth, Tonks removed the grate and placed it to the side. Staring down into the exhibit, she could tell it was abandoned; but that didn't mean the cameras were off. Unspoolling a bundle of rope from her belt, Tonks tied it onto a tool from her belt. The socket wrench was long and strong, able to hold her weight as she placed it over the vent's opening. The rope fell straight down, dangling only a half foot above the ground. Perfect. 

Tonks lifted a finger to her ear. "George?" she murmured. "How far out is the fire brigade?" 

_"The police scanners say they'll be arriving soon. But the fire was on the other side of the building - you'll have at least ten minutes before the security guards return to their posts."_

"Right. I need those cameras off me. Are you ready?"

"Yep." George, in the car outside, had dutifully recorded the last few minutes of the surveillance footage and looped it; even as Tonks slowly lowered herself to the ground, the camera picked up nothing but previous footage played on repeat.

Holding her breath, the tip of Tonks' boot touched the ground. When no alarms sounded, when no security guards came rushing in, she let herself breathe. Wiping the dust and grime from her pants, she fixed her ski mask and paused. Tonks checked her wristwatch. Although inopportune, she could _really_ use some gum right about then. Her mouth tasted foul.

Allowing herself a few seconds, Tonks opened a little pocket in her tool-belt and removed a small strip of chewing gum. Unwrapping the aluminum, she stuffed the gum into her mouth. She winced a bit at the strong minty flavor, but saliva quickly filled her mouth, washing out the taste of dust. Staring down at the wrapper, she let the smallest of smiles cross her lips. Using a skill long-forgotten, she folded the aluminum in an origami crane. She placed the crane onto a display case, the silver paper glinting in the orange emergency lights. 

They flashed in a strobe-like affect, casting rays of light across the golden decor and glass cases. The displays were certainly obstacles, making the pathway to the Mirror more like a maze than it needed to be.

The Philosopher's Stone was luminescent under the flashing lights. It was a beacon in the distance, the mirror tall and empowering; the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. Finally reaching it, Tonks merely stared upwards for a long moment.

She wasn't the most introspective, philosophical or religious person, but she felt the sudden need to prostate herself before the mirror. Her reflection in it was otherworldly, a blur of black, almost smoke-like in the warped mirror. Even with the ski mask concealing her features, she looked bad-ass. Her curves were outlined in the tight black clothing, her waist slim and her breasts straining. She looked, a bit, like a harbringer of death. Tonks wasn't shallow, but she whistled softly to herself. There would be no doubt in anyone's mind that the thief responsible for the missing Philosopher's Stone was no  _man._

Slipping past the velvet rope, Tonks carefully adjusted her tool belt. She reopened the little pocket and removed a pair of surgical gloves, the elastic snapping against her skin. Stepping on top the mirror's platform, she gained at least a few inches of height, and was able to easily reach the stone.

Holding it in place with one hand, a screwdriver in the other, she began prying it loose.  _Quick but efficient,_ she chanted to herself, brows drawing in consternation.  _Quick but efficient._

After a bit of tugging, the stone _cracked_ from it's placeholder.

The stone glimmered in her hand, the red crevices reflecting her smug face. She turned it around, inspecting it for cracks and scrapes. It was an ugly, blood red color, but even it's uneven edges were polished and cared for. "My precious," she hissed to herself, smirking at the reference. As her watch clicked down, Tonks realized she had only a few minutes left.

 _"I've got it!"_ Tonks informed her compatriots, tucking the gem into her jacket. It smacked against her rib cage, heavy and jagged.

Using her thumb and forefinger, Tonks removed the gum from her mouth and pressed it into the gaping hole left in the mirror's frame. It was a little joke between her and the police. The last time she robbed a convenience store (years ago, with Remus and his friends), she left a wad of gum in the cash register, gluing it stuck, once they were done. Of course, forensics would be able to find her DNA in the dried saliva, but by the time anyone noticed the theft, she and Hermione would be long gone.

They were looking for a summer home in Australia, down where Hermione's parents lived in retirement. With the money from the ruby, Hermione would be able to finish school anywhere she damn well pleased, and Tonks buy a hundred motorcycles, if she wanted. With that wistful dream in mind, Tonks unzipped another pocket in her belt and removed a perfect replica of the Philosopher's Stone. It was made of dyed quartz; courtesy of Gringotts and their penchant for forging artwork. 

Sticking her tongue out in concentration, Tonks pressed the stone into the wet bubble of gum. The gum  _squelched,_ echoing in the silence of the hall. Tonks slowly moved her hands away, pleased when the fake stone fit  _perfectly._ To an untrained eye, it raised no alarms.

Speaking of, just then, the emergency lights blinked out, casting the exhibit in darkness. For a moment, Tonks fumbled around in the dark before the lights flooded back on. The sudden burst of light nearly blinded her.

 _"The fire brigade have finished - the fire's out,"_  someone whispered in her ear, but Tonks ignored them. Stepping down from the platform, she fixed the velvet rope and ran back to the ventilation grate. She yanked on the rope dangling from the vent, and was surprised when the wrench came flying down at her. It smacked metallically against the tile, and  _that_ certainly caught some attention. 

Tonks heard a muffled "What was that?"from the hall and shut her eyes. 

She was such a fucking clutz. 

A short figure crossed in front if the exhibit doors, curious. Tonks bit back another swear.  "George?" she whispered hurriedly, darting behind the Fat Lady. She removed the gun from her tool belt, holding it delicately in both hands, peering out to see a man with a ridiculous moustache putter about the exhibit. "How long is left on those cameras?" She wondered if she could pistolwhip the man and make a break for it - but there simply wasn't enough time.  

_"You've got less than a minute. Are you okay?"_

Tonks didn't respond. Closing her eyes, counting to three, she jumped out from behind the painting and made a mad dash towards the door. The  _maitre d'_ stumbled back several steps, holding a clipboard to his chest for protection. "Wait -  _hey!_ Guards, guards!" 

She slipped behind a corner. All Flitwick caught was a glimpse of Tonks' black figure as she disappeared down the hall. A group of security guards ambled in front of the exhibit, and the sharply-dressed man gesticulated wildly as he sent them her way. 

Tonks lifted a hand to her ear, racing through the smooth marble halls. "I've been spotted. We're compromised." 

 _"No, we're not,"_ Tom said forcefully, his tone violently adamant.  _"Get to the roof - that's your main priority."_ Darting around a corner, she spotted the roof access door. It was unlocked, open to guests, because the view was apparently 'scenic'. Thank fuck for man's obsession with sunsets. 

_"The zipline is on the right-hand side behind a utility box."_

Breathless, Tonks bounded up the stone steps, the passageway narrow and stuffy. Tonks wondered if should could block the passage, and took a second to stop. Conveniently sitting unused at the top of the stairs was a full bottle of floor wax and a rag. Grunting, she maneuvered the bottle downward, the chemical spilling down the staircase and pooling at the bottom. 

Hopefully that would slow them down. She stood and shoved her way onto the roof, a brisk breeze and dark skies greeting her. The view of the garden at night really was spectacular. Colorful night-blossoms bloomed, and cicadas buzzed cheerfully. Hoards of people were wandering the gardens, sticking in close groups, arms wrapped around themselves to protect from the slight breeze. 

Tonks, already losing time, didn't have long to enjoy it. From her tool belt, Tonks removed the overlarge wrench and shoved it into the door handle. She considered it for a second. It was largely ineffective.  "Damnit," she removed the wrench, tossing it aside. "That only works in movies."

_"Are you there?"_

"Yeah," Tonks found the utility box, and the zipline attached precariously to the edge of the roof. "How did you even get that up here?"

 _"Bribed a janitor,"_ he said, dismissive.  _"Go._ Go." 

She panted. "I can't get away on the zipline. It'll lead them right to you." 

Tom paused, breathing sharply in her ear.  _"I'm patching you back to the extractment team."_

Within seconds, the line crackled, and Ron chimed through the com. He didn't bother with greetings.  _"Send the stone down,"_  Ron told her, familiar voice nervous with anticipation.  _"We'll_ _cut the line once it lands."_

Tonks stared down the zip-line. It disappeared behind a willow tree, under which a clunky white ambulance was parked. It was partially concealed by the darkness and the shade.

She knew what was at the end. She knew they'd be safe - but looking down, the ground suddenly seemed a lot farther than she liked. Tugging off her gloves, she grasped the satchel that was secured onto the small, metal trolley. She removed the rock from her jacket, smiling. "It seems this is where we part ways, my precious," she whispered. 

 _"Are you . . ._ talking  _to the stone?"_ Ron asked in her ear, astonished.  _"And referencing Lord of the Rings? I never pegged you for a Tolkienist."_

"No! Shut up." 

_"I've heard of tree huggers, but never - "_

"Tom, how much is the ruby worth if I 'accidentally' shatter it?" she snapped, already on edge.

There was a moment of pregnant silence, and the com switched over to Riddle. His deep voice rumbled in her ear.  _"Significantly less, Tonks. Just don't,"_ he warned. 

Nostrils flaring, Tonks closed her eyes and forcefully relaxed. "I won't," Tonks told him, determined. With that, she gently pushed the trolley down. Gravity took care of the rest, transporting the satchel down, down, down - into the darkness.

As the pounding of footsteps ascended to the roof, Tonks fidgeted nervously, waiting for her cue.  _"We've got it!"_ Ron's voice buzzed with excitement. The zipline was cut, and with a fast, metallic  _chink,_ it snapped back to the roof, dangling off the building. Grunting, Tonks hefted herself downward, using the sharp metal wire as a rope. She slid down to the ground, the dark of night shielding her. The rope cut into her gloves, a thin trail of blood twining down her wrist.

From above, the roof door slammed open. 

* * *

**_To be continued . . ._ **


	7. Chapter 7

**_The Powerful_ **

**TanninTele**

* * *

_Disclaimer: All rights belong to J.K. Rowling, voiding that of original content and characters._

* * *

**VII:**

The leaves of the willow tree brushed against Ron's arms, his skin prickling with gooseflesh - he was ticklish.

With a suppressed grunt, he captured the Philosopher's Stone and passed it down to George, who was making sure Ron didn't fall down while standing on the cot. "Mail's here," George said blandly, holding onto the stone with two, large hands. 

"Yeah . . . that was pretty easy," Ron said, swiping upwards with a knife. He cut the zip-line where it was attached to the tree trunk, the metal wire  _chinking_ as it flew out of sight. 

George agreed, frowning. "Deceptively easy." 

"Why can't we just leave with it _now_?" Fred asked, leaning over to glance excitedly at the stone. "I mean, I know the plan. I was there for it. But why not just," he slashed through the air, vague. Romilda glared at him for nearly smacking her. The ambulance was far too small for all four of them, and they were all pressed up against each other, squeezed between a cot, computers and other necessary paraphernalia. Fred continued. "Why not just cut out the middle man?" 

"The alarms were triggered," George informed them, lifting a hand to his com. Tom was speaking rapidly in his ear, angry at the fact Tonks' connection had been abruptly cut. She'd turned it off, likely to lower the risk of distraction as she made her hasty getaway. "They know someone was inside the exhibit, and they know someone is sneaking around. Any vehicle going in and out of the gardens will be heavily monitored, possibly being searched."

"Thus, Plan B," Ron inserted. He liked to sound important. Ron pointed to Romilda. "The reason my girlfriend is here, my ex-girlfriend is inside, and why Tom spent an inordinate amount of money on  this damn machine," Ron patted the gem faceting equipment, placed where an IV stand usually would reside in the tight space.   

Fred rolled his eyes. "Enough with the exposition, Ronnie. This isn't a movie. There isn't an audience, unless you count those idiots back at headquarters." He sat back on the cot and reclined. Romilda cleared her throat, and he held our his arm, allowing her to quickly finish bandaging his 'wound' with a cotton wrap. She pinched the edge and pulled at the hem, ensuring that there would be room for the rubies - once they'd cut the Stone into smaller bits, that is. 

Who was she kidding. 

Once  _she_ cut the Stone.

Romilda was the most skilled operative in this entire van, and she wasn't about to let her talents go unnoticed. "Watch and learn, boys," she said, gently shoving Ron out of the way. She sat before the gem faceter and held out a hand. George dutifully plopped the stone's satchel into her palm. She weighed it, considering the amount of work this would take - a lot. It was a big fucking stone. She was amazed these idiots hadn't broken it already.

Sliding on a pair of surgical gloves, of which they had in abundance, Romilda removed the stone and began examining it with a jeweler's loupe. Her eye was magnified as she inspected the ruby for any potential flaws that could create weakness in the stone. Flicking on the machine, which began with a dull  _whir,_ she began.

The process was arduous and required immense concentration. The latter requirement was difficult, obviously, when trapped in a van with three brothers who were constantly at odds. The machine's blade was circular and incredibly sharp. If one of those halfwit Weasleys even  _bumped_ into her, causing her to gravely injure herself, Romilda wouldn't hesitate before screaming _'THIEFS!'_  and point a bleeding finger every single individual even partially involved in this operation. She could fake cry with the best of them. 

Kidding, kidding. She was kidding. Mostly.

The truth of the matter was, Romilda did need to be vigilant, but she'd already given the boys a talking-too earlier that day. They stayed mostly quiet, watching with a mixture of immense fascination and extreme boredom as she slowly, methodically, began carving the stone into pebble-sized bits. The cuts were precise, deep enough that each carat maintained it's blood-red luster, each separate gem worth . . . a price Romilda couldn't even comprehend, much less convert. The quality of the cut increased it's value, and although they had little time allotted for 'Plan B', she did her best.

Finally, as she chipped off the last carat, Romilda wiped the sweat from her forehead and turned off the machine. "It's done." Holding up a single gem between her thumb and forefinger, the crevices of the tiny stone glinting beautifully, she whistled. "And a damn fine job I did, too." 

"Excellent," Fred nodded, pleased. He held out his wrist, wiggling it before her. "Are we going to do this, or what?" 

Feeling slightly put-out and less-than-impressed with his level of gratitude, Romilda scooped the gems off the faceter tray. She poured them into his open sleeve, allowing them to collect within the bandage, out of sight and unlikely to be inspected by security guards. He hissed as the stones, still hot from the machine, singed his skin. "Jesus. You could've warned me." 

Romilda smiled sharply. "Oops." 

Ten minutes later, Fred could be found stumbling toward the exhibit's entrance, the bandage fresh around his arm. The security guards were incredibly tense - and no wonder, the exhibit had nearly burnt down  _and_ they'd just been robbed. Eyeing him suspiciously as he tried to reenter the kitchens, they called Flitwick out for verification. Flitwick approached them, appearing just as frazzled as before, if not worse. He jumped at every movement in his peripheral vision and the gel in his hair had been sweated out, leaving his hair in mad spikes.

"He claims to be a chef named 'Rapier'," the guard said, mocking his accent. "He looks like a troublemaker, to me." 

"That's him," Flitwick sighed. "But I'm _quite_ certain he was horribly burnt and taken away by the emergency responders," he said drily. "Shouldn't you be in the hospital?" 

"It seemed worse than it was," Fred grumbled, holding his arm close to his chest. "I can still work. Come on, man," he pleaded, ready to go on his hands and knees. "I have rent to pay. A family to provide for." 

The _maitre d'_ gave him a dubious look, before sighing again, world-weary. "Fine," he snapped, whipping a clothe napkin off a plate. "I have an announcement to make in a moment. For now, cover that monstrosity. You're a wait boy. Do  _not_ fuck up." His moustache twitched with near autonomy, the ends curling with anger. 

Fred made the mistake of lifting his wounded arm in a salute, before grimacing in false pain. "Ow."  

* * *

"We - the archaeological guild - dearly apologize for this evening's dramatics. We _assure_ you you'll all be properly bored again by the time we finish tonight," Flitwick's voice flooded the exhibit, causing a polite twitter of laughter. "While our staff diligently work on bringing out your dinners, please enjoy a glass of red wine and our excellent orchestra." 

If you had told Hermione a year ago - or, hell, even a month ago, that she'd be _enjoying_ herself at some elite function, she'd call you a liar. But against all odds, Hermione was strangely content with the evening. The MacDougal siblings and Serena Zabini were better company than most, and after the impromptu jaunt outside, the event was livelier than ever. Gossip flew, tempers were high and tongues were loosened as glasses were topped off with rich red wine.  

A sense of finality crept in, triumph and satisfaction thrumming beneath Hermione's skin; it was a reaction she only achieved after gaining an 'outstanding' on a school project, or when she finished translating a novel from some dead language to English. Hermione savored each bite of steak as it was served, the wine bitterly sweet as it brushed her tongue. "Did you know," Isobel said as she gulped down the last drops in her cup. "The French introduce wine to their children from as early as the age of six - in small increments, of course, but it strengthens their tolerance, not to mention their taste palate."

Hermione frowned. Her parents had discouraged her from drinking even when she breached the drinking age. Her father had brushes with the law when he was younger, driving under the influence and landing himself behind bars once or twice. It was during a nightly stay at the courthouse in college that he met Hermione's mother, arrested for protesting Apartheid on campus. Although their story had ended up happy, Hermione could distinctly remember the laminated photos of students who'd been killed in drunk driving accidents or overdoses, placed in memorium on the inside walls of her high-school. 

Isobel seemed to read her expression, smiling wryly. "It's in other countries, where sixteen-year-olds break into their parent's wine cabinets and share it with their friends, that  _issues_ arise." 

"No shite," Hermione murmured under her breath, before turning red as her wine. "I mean - " 

The table laughed. "No worries, dear," Isobel told her, eyes sparkling. "A little profanity now and again is no crime. Behind closed doors, I bet you that  _maitre d'_ isn't the most  _professional_ of hosts, either. The man has already recited the riot act to that poor waitstaff twice in my periphery." 

Fred was, indeed, having his dignity crumpled up and served to him on a silver platter. He had accidentally dropped a half-empty bowl of soup onto the polished shoes of a guest, ingraining himself into everyone's memory as the perpetually clumsy, dull-witted server boy.

No one ever suspects an idiot of grand larceny until it's too late.

Fred stood dumbly in front of Flitwick, dissassociating from the lecture. "What do I have to do?" Flitwick hissed, stomping a foot. "Light a fire under your arse to get you moving?"

"I think we've already had enough fires already today, thanks," Fred said under his breath.

Clucking his tongue, Flitwick tore a pen from his clipboard and quickly scrawled out a note. "Any and all damage you've inflicted will be docked from your paycheck," he warned. " _Including_ the bill for that man's waxed alligator leather dress shoes!" 

 _His shoes cost more than half a year's worth of groceries,_ Fred thought in amazement, slightly vindictive. He kept his expression carefully cowed, nodding along in resignation. "Naturally, sir. I am - again - very sorry. It won't happen again." 

It happened again. 

He accepted a bottle of liquor from another staff, holding it like he would a precious child - if only to appease the ever-vigilant and ever-wary  _maitre d'._ Fred made his rounds, topping off glasses with a bland smile plastered to his features. He ducked away with a polite apology as Reba Diggory batted him away, looking exhausted. Reaching Hermione's table, he couldn't help his gaze drifting down to Morag MacDougal's straining brassiere in near awe. She caught his stare and turned a light, endearing shade of pink. 

He snapped out of it as Hermione pointedly set her long-stemmed glass in front of her, clicking the bottom against her plate. Fred moved between Hermione and Serena to reach it, and began to pour out the last of the bottle. He could feel the weight of their gazes, Serena watching him from beneath heavily lidded eyes, Hermione tense and warm beside him. The buzz of idle chatter washed over him, a sheen of sweat gathering beneath his arms, the bandage sticking wetly to his skin.

Amazingly, between starting a fire, faking a grave injury, and  _this -_ he'd gladly chose the other two. 

Clearing her throat to continue a conversation, Serena jostled her chair, bumping into Fred's elbow. His grip slipped, and with a splash of red, he spilled the wine directly onto Hermione's lap. She jolted out of her seat with a swear, looking down at the stain with a great deal of horror in her eyes. The deep red contrasted against the almost peach color of her jumpsuit, but it looked less like an artful splash of color, and more like her mensies had arrived early.

"Oh, god," Fred set aside the bottle and grabbed the napkin from his arm. He began to pat her down, stammering apologies. Twisting his wrist, head bowed over the task, he loosened the rubies from the bandage, letting them slip down into one of the pantsuits' pockets. She felt the sudden weight and stayed very still, an expression of consternation twisting her features.

"Getting a little handsy, there," she whispered to him. Fred patted her stomach with the clothe lightly, teasingly, and was treated with a slap upside the head.

Serena sneered at him. "You're doing it all wrong," she pushed Fred out of the way. "Let me. I have  _experience_ cleaning red spots from my wardrobe." Pulling Hermione away from the table, she gave the MacDougals an exasperated look. "This idiot _deserves_ to have the riot act read to him."

Fred mock-gasped, lifting a hand to his heart, as though wounded.  

"No, no, accidents happen," Morag tried to assure him, unfailingly kind.

Isobel made to stand, as though to assist the two women. "I can help . . . " 

"No!" Hermione blurted, breathless. She hid half-way behind Serena, hands over the stain. "No, thank you." As Isobel protested, Hermione wondered, _would this too-kind woman be the death of them?_

"I have it well under control," Serena cut in, expression confident, voice cool, brokering no arguments. Isobel reluctantly sat down. "Thank you, but there is no need for your evening to be ruined, as well. We'll only be a moment, carry on."

As they cut through the tables, the other guests murmuring in sympathy, Fred nervously wrung his napkin. 

 _"Rapier!"_ Flitwick's voice, low but furious, beckoned from the kitchen. 

"I think someone is calling for you," Morag said quietly, eyes wide with pity. Fred shot her a small, shaky smile, taking in her perpetually tight expression and the contrasting softness to her voice. She was pretty - in an alien way, but pretty all the same. 

As Flitwick hissed his name once more, Fred rolled his eyes up to the ceiling, begging some entity - any entity - that his subsequent sacking wouldn't be any more humiliating than starting a fire, and then promptly spilling wine, both in front of pretty ladies.  

Meanwhile, Serena ushered Hermione into the bathroom, grimacing at a woman who stood fixing her make-up at the sink. "Oh, dear," the woman said, stopping to twist down her deep purple lipstick. "Clumsy?" 

"Something like that," Hermione agreed grimly. Serena ripped down a handful of white paper towels, and began to soak them under the sink. The other woman left to give them space, and as soon as the door fell shut, Serena stopped the tap. 

" _Hurry_." 

Dipping a hand into her pocket, Hermione pulled out the rubies. They fell out of her palm onto the marble counter-top, where Serena began to sort through them. "I think we can fit them all." 

Hermione hummed, removing the Black family heirloom from her hair. The curls fell out of their messy up-do, falling into her face as she picked off all the fake plastic gems and tossed them into a toilet, which flushed away to erase the evidence. Using a pair of tweezers from her handbag, Serena plucked at a ruby and methodically began snapping them into their jewelry. Earrings, belts, cuff links, the poinsetta-shaped comb; the rubies slotted in perfectly, held in with glue, disguised as a bottle of nail polish. As they reached the end of their task, Serena glanced along the floor for any lost gems. "Damn," she swore, swooping down to pick up a forgotten ruby. "There's one left. Where do we put it?" 

Giving out a long sigh, Hermione held out her hand for it. "My parents would kill me if they thought I got a belly-button piercing," she informed Serena, lifting the hem of her top. She allowed Serena to swipe the cold glue across her naval, and pressed the ruby in. She inspected herself in the mirror, tilting her head. The ruby earrings sparkled, tickling against her cheek, and the hair-comb seemed to glisten brighter. Every part of her gleamed, and glancing at Serena, her smile was just as bright. 

Serena returned her wry grin. "Who knows," she said, returning to the sink to dab carefully at the wine stain. "Maybe your girlfriend will think it's hot."

* * *

Tonks was breathing heavily, panting like a dog, but grinning all the same.

She had abandoned her motorbike somewhere in the midst of London city, swerving into a dark, dank alley to avoid the approaching police vehicles. The only witness, a homeless man, had eyed her all-black garb with only a roll of his eyes, before returning to the blunt stuffed between his lips.

"Uh - can I have that?" Tonks had asked him, and after bartering for it with her ski mask and the contents of her tool belt, he'd complied. He got the better end of the deal. 

She filled her lungs with the heady smoke, closing her eyes to savor the enhanced feeling, and when she opened her eyes a few minutes later, she found herself in front of a seedy tavern. It wasn't  _The Hog's_ _Head,_  but it would do. Pushing open the doors, she greeted the bartender with a smirk. "I'm of age," she told him, when he arched a brow at her. Tired, and clearly too lazy to fact-check, he served her a pint. 

Grasping the slippery handle with a trembling hand, irises blown, she lifted the cup in a toast. 

"To . . . to  _victory,"_ she said, after a moment. The other patrons, playing a game of snooker in the corner, grumbled a consensus. 

Tonks laughed.

* * *

It took exactly one day for the _Louvre_  to discover the false stone, a week for Tonks to buy two tickets to Australia (and a new motorbike), three weeks for Fred and George to place a down payment on a joke shop, and twelve years before Serena and Narcissa's efforts to legalize gay marriage finally came to fruition. 

Twelve years, for that matter, is comprised of exactly forty-eight seasons of fashion, enough time for Harry - with help from Serena - to launch his career as a designer for the darker, criminal side of the wealthy elite. Black is _always_ in trend; Tonks, vibrant by day, devious by night, is a perfect example of that. Australia had been a lovely sabbatical, and Hermione had an incredibly tiring but very rewarding time going for her master's degree in social justice. Anyone who says politicians are just well-dressed criminals . . . are absolutely correct. 

As for all the others, Ron and Romilda, Colin Creevey, Griphook, Greyback and all the other minor characters involved in the events of March twentieth, 2002, well - use your imagination.

Tom and Harry, for all their dubious assertions that _caring for the individual is better than 'the greater good'_ , were rather wrapped up in each other's lips for a good portion of their relationship. For all they knew, Greyback was behind bars and Griphook was grumpily sitting on his throne at the gentleman's club. Colin Creevey, at least, became a photographer for the  _Daily Prophet,_ working under the head reporter, Romilda Weasley. She had been promoted to Rita Skeeter's spot at the  _Daily Prophet,_ and while her journalism was still dramatic and sensationalized, Romilda had a peculiarly insightful view into the inner workings of London crime. Her jewelry line was adopted by Harry, who decided - against his criminology teacher's urgings - that perhaps working in fashion was a great deal more fulfilling than chasing the next serial killer. 

What  _did_ happen to Minerva McGonagall? In the scheme of things, she wasn't very important, but nothing is  _ever_ just coincidental. 

Neither is Griphook's comment - _"I believe I at least deserve the privilege to speak with the 'Death Eaters'_ true  _leader."_

_"You're looking at him."_

_"Oh?_ Am I  _really?"_

Before the legalization of same-sex marriage, before the move to Australia, but after the finale of their great heist, Griphook's question was finally answered.

* * *

It was becoming all-too regular for people to catch Tom and Harry having sex in Tom's office. Perhaps it was an exhibition kink of Tom's, or perhaps the world simply had it out for them, but either way - it was obnoxious. 

A party was raging in the headquarters, watered-down vodka downed furiously, like it was an end-of-term college party. Tom and Harry had slipped away from the festivities, none-too-surreptitiously making eyes at each other. "You look hot in that suit," Harry whispered to Tom, grabbing a handful of his perfectly coiffed hair, dragging him down to sloppily kiss the corner of his mouth. Tom groaned deeply, sucking Harry's tongue in deep. The cavern of his mouth was warm and wet; Harry melted into the kiss. 

Tom's hand drifted down to cup Harry's bottom, backing them toward his desk. "And  _you . . ._ " he trailed a finger down beneath his belt, tracing the smooth, bare skin of his perineum. "Aren't wearing any - " 

"Thomas, please," a voice interrupted from behind them. "Keep your hands to yourself." 

Tom's hands tensed on Harry's arse, quickly pulling away as though he'd been scolded by his mother. Harry's eyes shot open, meeting Tom's glazed, exasperated blue ones. Though Tom shook his head imperceptibly, begging him not to look, Harry couldn't help glancing over Tom's shoulder to the woman sitting in his desk chair.

The woman, short hair a mixture of strawberry blonde and silver, smiled gently at him. "I hope this hasn't placed a damper on your party, boys," she said, carefully setting aside the files she'd been snooping through. "I just thought I'd pop in, keep an eye on the festivities." 

Harry cleared his throat, bewildered, but his British sensibilities forced him to be polite. "Er," he peeled himself off Tom, fixing his shirt. He blushed when he realized Tom had nearly shared the fact he wasn't wearing any underpants to this strange guest. "Not to be rude, ma'am, but who are you?" 

The woman's blue eyes twinkled in amusement. "Really, Thomas? You haven't told him about me?" she asked, crossing her legs beneath the desk. It seemed she was getting comfortable.

Despite the infuriating non-answer, reminiscent of Tom when he was trying to be playful and evasive, Harry could respect her sense of style. The trim, eggplant pencil skirt and the large shoulder-pads of her blazer should  _not_ have been attractive, but she wore them with power and with grace for such a slim woman. He guessed she was in her fifties, but wore the age well, smile lines crinkling her cheeks and blue eyes still bright. Something was familiar about her - something he couldn't place his finger on. 

Sensing his confusion, she leaned forward and offered him a hand. Her grasp was firm, hand soft and nails carefully rounded - with the shortly trimmed nails and the hair-cut, Harry's gaydar was tingling.

"Call me Arianna. None of this ma'am business." 

Automatically, Harry made to introduce himself, but she stopped him. "I know who you are, Harry. I've been watching you for a long while, dear. I'm not going to tell you that you're 'special', because I already have to deal with one inflated ego," she shot a glance at Tom, who seemed offended. "But since you met Tom, I've . . . monitored your life, including your relationship with that ridiculous Draco boy. While I am sorry for the emotional wounds that relationship caused, I'm not sorry it ended." She told him. "I encouraged Tom to have a _conversation_ with the DeLacours, and after that, things just seemed to . . . fall into place," her tone darkened, lips curling into a duplicitous smile. "Revenge is, of course, the best incentive to turn an innocent school child into a hardened criminal." 

" _Hardened_ . . . " Harry mouthed, standing straighter. "Wait, you've been  _stalking_ me? Did you know about this?" he aimed a finger at Tom, who - alarmed, raised his hands in submission. "That she's been  _molding_ me into this - " he flapped his hands wildly. "Perfect little solider for your cause? That's crossing a line, Tom."

"It was," Arianna agreed, enjoying the sight of his green eyes lighting with anger. "But, sometimes, lines need to be crossed. Your skills were very useful to this expenditure, weren't they?" As she began to list them, her intent clearly to soften him up, he huffed. "You have an extensive list of equally skilled friends, an eye for disguise, _and_ you have a particular empathy towards criminals that impressed even the unflappable Minerva McGonagall. It's a shame you aren't interested in law enforcement," she said idly. "We could always use an undercover operative, but,  _c'est la vie._ It's not meant to be." 

Harry gaped. "You - you  _know_ Professor McGonagall?" 

"Know her?" Arianna smirked, and fluffed her hair. "Darling, I've been  _dating_ her. We met while she was investigating my estranged brother's . . . proclivities," her lips tugged into a frown. "While she was working in law enforcement, she found tracked me down, hoping I would provide some insight. When she instead discovered I was the leader of a crime organization, I'm afraid I had to have her kidnapped." She said it so casually that Harry could almost be fooled they were having an entirely different conversation.

"But Minnie's a rational, formidable woman, and after hearing my story, decided she'd rather see Albus behind bars than me. She was impressed that you saw through Albus' plot so quickly. I have to thank you for that, Harry - I feel better knowing he's somewhere he can't hurt anyone."  

Memory reeling, back to a time before the Philosopher's Stone, before Tom, back when he was grappling between a choice of careers (a conflict that seemed so mundane now), he remembered the story of Albus Dumbledore. "Albus - " he said weakly. "The Dollmaker?" 

She nodded, grave, a strand of silvery hair falling into her face. "When we were younger, Albus practically raised me and my other brother - Aberforth, the bartender - you might know him?" she gestured upwards toward the bar, and Harry made a strained noise. Was _everyone_ related, now? His gaze drifted to the portrait of 'Sister A', guarding a secret passageway, and he swore; the portrait was a spitting image of Arianna if she was a child, and he felt stupid for missing it. 

Arianna continued. "When we were younger, Albus was . . . " she paused. "Prone to obsessions. He was _attached_ to a neighbor of ours, looked up to him - a cruel boy that liked to burn bugs and torture cats in his free time," she curled her nose. "The boy would harass me and other members of the neighborhood, throwing stones at us, threatening to bury us alive, brandishing knives that had been hidden in his sleeves. When I tried to tell Albus, my brother ignored me, told me I was being silly. When I insisted, he became . . . violent. He didn't like it when people 'lied' to him. I was a child, only six or so, and I was only trying to 'tell someone I trusted' that I was being bullied . . . but his obsession was too deep. I was attacked one day while setting up a lemonade stand, was admitted to the hospital. The nurses saw that some bruises were older than the others, and they took me away from our parents. The childcare system was different back then. They either cared too much, or not enough," Arianna's eyes slipped shut, and Harry glanced at Tom, who seemed equally drained of energy. 

"I was too young to protest the relocation, and I was sent to live with a truly lovely family who changed my name from Ariadne to Arianna - easier to pronounce," she shrugged a slim shoulder. "Aberforth contacted me several years later, and we've remained in close contact - but when I heard about Albus, I couldn't help but feel . . . pity. Anger. Disgust. My oldest brother had been led to believe I had died . . . although there was no funeral. He shifted his obsession with our neighbor onto his memory of me, and those little girls paid the price." 

The woman nearly trembled with rage. She lifted her hand up to pinch her nose. 

"I won't say I dedicated myself to revenge, or to a life of crime in order to punish all those like my brother," her lips twisted in a wry smile. "It sounds awfully cliche, even if there's a truth to it. No, my reasons for leading the Death Eaters are entirely my own, and neither of you are privy to them. My point, if there ever was one, is that tragedies and revenge are like fuel to a flame. I used your failed relationship with the Malfoy brat to further my own means, and there's no use being upset about it, when the results are so clearly in your favor." 

Though she laid it out so rationally, Harry did not appreciate being told his emotions were useless. "Water under the bridge, huh?" he huffed, crossing his arms. The look he sent Tom clearly meant  _this was not over._ "So . . . what was all this then? An initiation? A test? Some convoluted fraternity-esque hazing?" 

The sparkling of Arianna's eyes, the shade a mixture between icy grey and sky blue, was quickly becoming annoying. "You are rather perceptive, aren't you?" she acknowledged, sitting straighter. She reached for some paperwork, licking a finger as she began to comb through it. "I took the liberty of going through some of Tom's notes. I hope you don't mind, Tom?" 

"Of course not," he bit out. 

"Ah. Here we go," she hummed. "The break-out of Fenrir Greyback. Everything about that situation was a pity - the man has worked with us for several years, and although I knew he was doing work on the side, I was _very_ disappointed in him for getting caught," 

"And mauling a child," Harry said pointedly. 

"Of course, that too. The Death Eaters have many enemies, but most of them are small, insignificant gangs that often act too big for their breeches. In this instance, however, it seems an _old_ enemy has become a _new_ enemy, and he has  _influence."_

Harry glanced at Tom, unsure. Despite the fact this woman was, undoubtedly, a bitch, she had a way of speaking that drew him in. "An old enemy?"

"I knew him as a boy - " Arianna told them lightly. "But over the years, he's escalated from throwing rocks and torturing animals, to jailbreak and treachery. I suspect he had a hand in the recent prison break, turning our members against us. Really - all the way from Germany," Arianna sighed, shaking her head. She sat up, and waggled her finger at them. "If you two are going to help me with this, there is something you will need to keep in mind." 

A heavy hand landed on Harry's shoulder, the pressure there, but not overwhelming. It was Harry's decision whether or not to throw in his hat, to take up the gauntlet, to accept the offer of an olive branch. Taking in a deep breath, Harry shifted into Tom's side, showing an unerring solidarity despite it all. 

Whatever they did, they did together. Harry spoke, speaking for them both. "What is it?" 

Arianna, approving, leaned over her elbows, staring them dead in the eye. Blue met green, both sharp and verdant, two birds of a feather crossing paths. She spoke low, and Harry had the sensation that if this was a movie, the soundtrack would be reaching a crescendo.

" _Never,"_ she started. "Or . . . I mean,  _always - "_ Arianna paused again, frowning. Her fingers flicked as she tried to work it out in her head. "No, I was right the first time. Alright - " With a slap of her hands against the table, she began again.

" _Never._ Underestimate. The crimes of Grindelwald."

* * *

**_The End of_ The Dreadfuls  _Series_**


End file.
